


Maybe you should tag along

by ferreuscelo



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Abandonment, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Introspection, M/M, Mission Fic, More angst than fluff actually, Romance, Trust Issues, unf will come in later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-11-22 15:41:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 53,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferreuscelo/pseuds/ferreuscelo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's no training at MI6 about a broken man and bonding with another human being. This story takes place after M's death and the consequences of learning about trust in every possible level in life.</p><p>Beta read by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/aleksandr_starshow/pseuds/aleksandr_starshow">aleksandr_starshow</a> and <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/ishougen/pseuds/ishougen">ishougen</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Q.”

“Double oh seven.”

And that was it. The precise moment their connection was set off.

It was quarter past nine and the appointment was originally set at nine o’clock. The agent was late, and Q didn't feel actually so bad about it. The Quartermaster has been there since five to nine and stood hidden behind a column waiting for the scheduled arrival of the infamous Bond, the legend everyone spoke of in the corridors and only a few of the new personnel had the chance to cross one or two words with. It took him an hour or so to decide what to wear back at his apartment. He wanted to show confidence and introduce himself as someone with a splendid good taste regarding his appearance. That was until he started panicking because he didn't have a large coat to match his two piece suit and he finally had to switch for the closest he had to that: a raincoat. Yes, very glamorous.

He shouldn't keep a legend waiting.

The subject finally arrived and sat on the bench opposite the painting with the ships, "The Fighting Termeraire" by JMW Turner. The smaller boat carrying the veteran for dismantling was an interesting analogy for their first encounter and he hoped the man had some humor left around the rough edges of dealing with new acquaintances every day. The election of the painting wasn't meant to be an insult; it was actually a hidden and clever reference to his desire of serving and providing his best for the upcoming mission at hand. It was like meeting a celebrity, an unreachable star, and he was a child, dazzled by this famous individual’s mere presence. There’s no shame in confessing his heart was beating faster than it should as he secretly admired him over there sitting, waiting for him. It was going to be the first of the many meetings he’d have with double oh seven and he wanted to cause a good impression.

He took a deep breath intake and adjusted his glasses. He straightened his back and mouthed the words he’s been rehearsing for the first reunion, over and over again until he was sure it wouldn't sound awkward and forced. He had to act cool, never meet his eyes, pretending to be abstracted by the canvas in front of him, regarding it as if it was far more important that this obligatory meeting and considering his company was just a mere occurrence. Work. Just like that. Casual.

Only that it didn't end up that good.

"A grand old warship being ignominiously hauled away for scrap. The inevitability of time, don't you think?"

Shit. That didn't sound as cool as he imagined. Way to go.

From that point on he felt his stomach was twisting while trying to maintain the relaxed facade. And the only thing he was achieving was getting his feet deeper and deeper into the thick puddle of mud he was sinking. That big, stupid mouth of his. It wasn't the first time he wants to impress someone and it backfires horribly. He should go back to debate club back in secondary school and re-take the diplomacy 101 class. But the damage was done and he had to save the situation the best he could.

Thanks god he didn't have to wait for too long. Bond apparently got sick of it too and started throwing remarks about his looks and his capability or lack of, to complete a task as the new Quartermaster. It seemed like an eternity until he was able to put that stupid, imbecile idea to an end.

And then the agent offered him a smile, unique as he’s never seen in his short life so far.  
So it was no urban legend, this man was made of seduction even in the smallest things.

Perhaps Q held his gaze on him a little too long before pulling the envelope out of the inner pocket of his jacket with the plane tickets to Shangai. But that piercing blue glance was so magnetizing it was virtually impossible to tear your eyes away from it. From that moment on, everything was easier to manage. The initial barrier was off and he didn’t have to pretend being the stuck up ass he’s displayed for the first half of the conversation.

He could focus on the details with more precision. Being so close to double oh seven sent chills down his spine, as if his childish feelings before entering the scene were intensified by the fact that yes, he was talking to him at last. He had broader shoulders than his own, that was undeniable, but he didn’t seem to be as hulky as he has imagined. He’s seen pictures from his personal file of course, but the excitement of finally meeting him magnified the preconception regarding his physique.

He noticed that his hands were huge and he had what looked like a strong grip. Q wondered how many have perished under them in one way or another, and he tried to picture him strangling some bloke that stood on his way during the progress of a mission. He shuddered at the thought. This man was on the same side as him but the idea of imagining him taking a life, breaking a neck like it was made of celery was, to say the least, scary. His jacket defined his arms fairly well and it didn’t seem like he decided to wear a smaller piece of cloth on purpose. He -really- had a strong frame according to his lifestyle as a secret agent. His voice was made of a purr mixed with whiskey and cigarettes, rich and deep yet soft and charming.

He left the hall still feeling like a foolish teenager after a hangover with his crush, recording every aspect of the experience and his impression of him.

Before leaving, Q made a ridiculous remark about returning the equipment in one piece after completing the mission and lingered for a second unsure as to what to do next. He took yet another chance to stare at him in the eye and he couldn't prevent from lowering his voice on his last phrase, while his hands were actually shaking and his knees were at about to collapse from nervousness. What to do next. Hands shake? Pat on the back? Head bow? _“See you around?"_ Instead he turned around like the fucking socially inept nerd  and disappeared into the crowd, heading towards the bathroom. Once inside the safety of the four walls of one of the sanitary cubicles he put the toiled lid down and sat there shaking a bit and resting his temples on his hands.

The hypothesis of the possibility of a grand failure on his first encounter with Bond was now proven with extensive references. He screwed everything up from the very start. He wanted nothing else than earning his confidence and the only thing he gained was making himself look like a damn stubborn child who thinks he’s too good to dare bother with him. What the hell he was thinking? There’s no way in hell he could ever match the easy going attitude of someone who works out in the field. He’s made for a lab, not for carrying a gun and scoring at cocktail parties.

The next time he met him was at headquarters and in his element, which made things easier. It was the perfect time to impress the agent and yes, he made the right move in his advantage.

"Only about six people in the world could program safeguards like that."

"Of course there are. Can you get past them?" Bond asked then.

"I invented them." He replied with the self-satisfaction you could presume from someone who’s over the seventy percent of the world’s population and uses more than an octave of their brain. And it felt so good. Yes, so good to impress him like a grader who just won the best diorama project at the science fair. Well, being the head of the department at age twenty-three was a good achievement. More than good.

He helped him solve the mystery back then before shit hit the fan and Silva escaped causing mayhem. He helped him again tracing a fake line diverting Silva’s attention from finding Bond’s real location in Scotland. And he was there when he heard the news about M passing away at the disastrous circumstances that ensued. It was his first time dealing with an occurrence which involved a high ranked and respected superior's death. He’s been barely for a year in the MI6 after they offered him the job and he didn’t even know how to use a bloody gun, yet alone be prepared for an institutional crisis like this. He was informed at the office while working extra shifts to prevent a disaster that, sadly, successfully followed. And there he was again, hiding in the bathroom trying to process all of this and dealing with his rational and emotional side in one tangled mess.

He could only think how Bond was doing right then, so he got up, manned up and went straight to the hospital riding a cab in the middle of the night. The city lights passed through the glasses of the car, as he rested his right temple pressed against the cold window.

"I’m on the behalf of MI6," he said presenting his ID card to the nurse, and after receiving a nod, he followed her to the room where double oh seven was.

Bond was sitting on top of the bed with his back hunched and a male nurse disinfecting some minor wounds in his neck. He was more than sure that they were keeping him there to check his psychological state over the physical one. He looked smaller then. And even if it was the first time he saw him bare-chested he didn't focus on his partial nudity but the disheartened eyes staring at some point between the floor and the wall ahead from him. He looked lost, broken, very different from the secure version he saw that time at the Tate Museum and he didn’t blame him for it. He was enduring the event like a professional, very different from what Q would do if he was wearing his shoes.

He tentatively approached and laid a hand over his shoulder with caution. His skin was icy and smelled like algae or some water plant. Bond didn’t move an inch to look back at him.

"She’s gone," the blond haired man stated, matter-o-factly.

"Yes." There wasn't much to be added and it doesn’t take to be a genius to grasp when someone’s not going to be the most talkative human on earth.

The nurse eyed him questionably for a moment before returning to his stitching job. Bond didn’t flinch at all, probably numb and abstracted in his own thoughts.

Q noticed there was a file sitting on the bed next to him. That, along with the two agents at the entrance was part of MI6’s security to assure his complete recovery without interruptions.

Once he was done, the Scot threw his shirt back on and headed outside with his Quartermaster following him like a lost puppy. Outside, an uproar of journalists and cameras were glued against the hospital entrance waiting for an official statement, a job the propaganda division will surely take care of.

His self-imposed role then consisted on silently accompanying Bond until he was done with the process: making a personal statement, informing HQ about his version of the events, picking up his belongings and checking on Kincade before he left. Bond grabbed a smoke standing next to a bench outside in the cold night and he exhaled, apparently oblivious of Q’s presence. Q kept his hands into his pockets to prevent them from freezing and stood silently by his side, until he broke the silence.

"It will make no difference showing up at the MI6 tonight or tomorrow. You might consider heading back home," he mused. There was no immediate reply. The agent let a thin curtain of smoke escape from his nostrils and kept his glassy stare towards the ambulances coming in and out of the hospital, the stretchers being pulled in a rushed, constant traffic.

"The Red Lion it is." Bond threw the smoke off and took the lead to grab a cab. Without further instructions, Q followed closely trying to match the other man’s long strides.

Whitehall Road was desert at that hour. They could have used the tube but the taxi was faster. Q was taken by surprise for the election of the pub because it’s a touristic spot and it’s always crowded. Perhaps that was what Bond wanted that time, a mass to hide and get lost with loud people laughing and chatting. These places are great for staying at the back in anonymousness, listening to everything and nothing like white noise.

They found a spot near a window surrounded by dark oak wooden walls, tall windows, and the warm light from the pendant lamps framing their features. They ordered a pint and something told Q it wasn’t the only thing the agent was going to drink for the night because after all, he’s read about the high alcohol consumption when Bond starts cracking, or at least that’s what the psychological branch said on his file.

"I’m not very good at this,” Q blurted out.

"At what?” Bond idly toyed with one of the suggestions displayer on top of the table.

"Keeping company after a distressing event."

"Nobody’s forcing you."

"I know. Just felt like clarifying." Q met his stare for a brief moment before looking away at the window raising his chin and taking a deep breath. If he wasn’t so stubborn and shy, he would have probably go for a pat on the back at the hospital for reassurance when the wounds were still warm and the need of comfort was latent. But it felt odd to do such thing after the situation started sinking and eventually cooled off. If he was really, really brave he’d have liked to hug him, but that was out of the question. Instead, he stayed there maintaining a safe distance enough for him to be aware of his presence but not as much as forcing him into a social talk to shrug things off.

The beverages came and they made a small, almost muttered toast for M. Q held the glass with both hands and licked his lips, staring at the table. He finally looked up and found Bond’s staring back at him with a poker face. He made a grimace and quirked the corners of his lips just an inch. His shoulders were betraying him. He felt a heavy load product of the intensity of those eyes and diverted his look to the almost dried jacket the Scot was wearing.

"Let it out."

"Huh? Oh… well,” he started, unsure of what to say next, "Tomorrow Mallory will send you the internal affairs committee to file the events of today.

"Hm."

"To give it a closure, you know." Q tried his best to pick his words carefully.

"A closure according to whom?" he asked, and Q was taken aback.

"MI6?" he answered, never leaving Bond’s stare.

"An official closure. Not the one M expected. Nor Silva did. Or Rodríguez. Or whatever the bloody hell you wanted to call him, Christ." Double oh seven took another long drag on his pint and rubbed his temples.

It wasn't rare to see agents have nervous breakdowns where they’d start questioning everything: the system, the motivations, the prospects of a continuous existence dedicated to pure patriotism mixed with imminent danger. Silva was an extreme case pushed by the decisions of very few, voiced by M’s final directive and subsequently, a time bomb ready to detonate at any minute. Every once in a while you get punched by a new perspective from a colleague at work. And Silva’s example was radical according to what they do, like a very blatant reminder that _this may happen to you too._  They should put it on the recruiting pamphlets at the moment of hunting for future agents.

"At the risk of falling into a black hole here, I have to remind you that working out in the field is potentially dangerous for the psyche. The personnel research branch have published a...-"

"I know what the manual and the contract says. But the paper does not reflect the reality as it is. Once in a mission, there’s nothing to come back to in case you survive." Bond aimed to lit another cigarette but stopped on the half way to it. “And if you end up being a disposable puppet like Silva, trapped in a political game, how do you come back to reality?”

He had a point. And Q was sure he already knew the answer to that question. There would be no words that could reassure him otherwise and he understood that anything that comes out of his mouth will bounce back to him like echo against a wall.

“Silva was left totally alone. You have something else to come back to,” he suggested taking another sip from the golden beer.

“Work. And more work after that.” Bond put the lighter back into the inner pocket of his jacket.

“Not only that. I’m assuming there’s something else. Or at least I hope there is.”

Big mouth, again.

Double oh seven narrowed his eyes and studied him in silence. Q felt subtle warmth creeping up towards his cheeks and turned his hazel colored irises somewhere else.

“You hope,” he said, breaking the silence. And without another word he gestured the waitress for another drink.

Things were going to a different scenario Q imagined for a post-traumatic condition. He noticed how little by little the other man was relaxing with their chat and internally smiled at this. Perhaps he wasn’t so bad at keeping company. Or perhaps his infatuation (yes, the exact word to describe his situation would be that one) was tricking the reality of what was going on.

“People come and go, that is the unavoidable reality we are subjected to. But I think.” Q paused and swallowed hard. “I think you have more to offer to this world than you give yourself credit for.”

Bond rested his forearms on the table and leaned closer. The Quartermaster instinctively propelled himself backwards, never leaving his inquisitive stare. He felt something burning in his chest.

“And what would you know about that?”

“I…,” he hesitated, “I've read your file and I know you commit yourself to the victims on the missions. That proves you care more about certain things than just fulfilling your duty. It...” Q stammered clenching and relaxing his right fist by his side, hidden from the agent, “It’s a very tangible fact of concern and that’s what fills you. You’re not an empty soldier. In my most humble opinion.”

Double oh seven tilted his head to the side and gave him a subtle smile, apparently satisfied with the answer. Or perhaps he was getting drunk already.

The TV at his back was broadcasting the recent events and the speculation about M’s end. So the official word isn’t out yet. He noticed double oh seven’s look changing from the relaxed expression into a stern one the minute he eyed the telly. His chest was heaving up and down, positively angry again.

Q rubbed his eyes. They were killing him from staring at the screens for over forty-eight hours of non stop work. The only thing he wanted right then was to go back home, take a shower, eat a basic microwaved meal and collapse in bed. But there’s another priority right now.

“You should go.” Bond brushed the icy side of his pint against Q’s forearm and the younger one jumped at the touch.

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I’m not leaving you alone.”

The alcohol was certainly loosening up his tongue and Q was getting close to a mine field. This is exactly why he doesn’t go out too frequently with his friends. And this is why online chat works, because even if you’re drunk, you’re at the safety of your own house and you can avoid these embarrassing moments.

“As much as I appreciate it, MI6 is not paying you to babysit me. And I wouldn’t dare to deprive them from their technology wizard.” The man sounded sincere and that lifted Q’s spirits. And that was the perfect line to excuse him from this continuum of awkwardness he put himself into.

“On a second thought, I should get going.” Q stood up and adjusted his brown satchel on his shoulder. “You’ll be expected to come as soon as possible tomorrow and… stay safe.”

Ok. That was it. He needed to _leave_ immediately and as fast as his legs could carry him.

“Will do,” was Bond’s simple reply.

Q pushed his chair back in place and started moving towards the entrance when a strong hand surprisingly held his arm. He quickly turned his head to look at it and then to its owner with a bit of shock.

“Thank you.”

Feeling a blush tainting his cheeks, he nodded and rested his own hand on Bond’s shoulder for a second before heading towards the exit, walking straight like he had an iron corset constricting his spine. 

That experience was definitely not what he expected for a Wednesday night.

And from that point on, nothing would be the same anymore. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some references about real scenarios/institutions/etc:
> 
> * The Red Lion: it's one of the most historical (been there since 1434, aprox) and touristic pubs in London located at Whitehall Road, not too far away from MI6 and near the Richmond House. All the food/drinks you'll see in the upcoming chapters come directly from the menu as it shows on their website. -> http://redlionwestminster.co.uk


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta read by fantastic scandinavianrogue.

Simon and Garfunkel start their hippie lament on the stereo with the infamous _Sound of silence._

Q opens one eye from under the covers and groans. The American duo singing only meant one thing: it’s five am and he has to wake up or he’ll be late for work. He uses different songs for setting his alarms and for a reason he can’t pin point, the only thing that doesn’t hurt his ears in the morning is Simon and Garfunkel. Perhaps it’s the softly murmured words of the intro, like gently waking you up from your long sleep.

He nuzzles against the soft white pillow and pulls the sheets closer to his chest, lingering on the sleepiness remaining before getting up. He heads towards the shower and finishes the process of brushing the drowsy state as the hot drops of warm water wash his pale skin. On his way to the kitchen he mutters a “good morning” to the golden pothos curling its small green branches towards the sun. He makes a pause to turn the pot in order to let the leaves switch positions in the opposite direction and straighten themselves again. There. Much better.

With his black pants on, a white shirt and a half-done tie he sits barefooted at the kitchenette counter sipping his Earl Grey. He yawns and raises the TV volume a bit. They’re talking about M. The official story is that an ETA terrorist named Adriano Fernandez from Spain is being held responsible for the death of the head of MI6. He is presumed to have been holding a grudge against the institution. The motivation includes a detailed background history of connections between the individual and international similar organizations.

_Nicely pulled, guys._

His head aches a little from last night’s alcohol. He’s not used to it and it was stupid to assume he’d be fresh and clean this morning. It feels like the anti-acid is performing an Irish stepdance in his stomach and the day has just started.

 _Last night_ , he recalls.

A new track starts on his iPod. Q rests his back against one of the bars of the tube crowded with office workers, students and travelers. He lets his eyes close for a second remembering yesterday’s events. That talk and the twisted sensation in his abdomen the moment he stepped outside The Red Lion, leaving a fairly drunk Bond behind.

_Was he really drunk?_

He remembers the intense eyes focused on him when those strong fingers curled around his arm. He had felt an indescribable energy pulling him against the simplicity of that touch.

The train stops and people are descending at the station. He gets off and starts walking to the line of “authorized personnel” doors leading to the provisory underground MI6 quarters until further notice. He slides his card and two beeps confirm the entrance authorization and apparently some of the guards at the entrance cannot retain a face by memory because they look at him like he's just another lost teen. Q branch is empty except for Charles, one of the men under his charge, sitting behind his desk who greets him with a quick nod.

“Morning, sir,”

“Morning. Are we having a briefing? Because I’m not seeing the rest here,” he asks, pulling the winter black jacket off his shoulders.

“I believe… it’s due to last night’s occurrences, sir” his subordinate replies sensing there’s going to be some kind of reprimand coming from the boss.

Q pauses and turns around to offer his back to his interlocutor, facing the lit screens at the front of the room. Is he the only one trying to act professionally about the whole incident?

“Right. As soon as the rest shows up, we’ll resume from our last location in Thailand,” Q puts his hands on his trousers’ pockets and directs himself to the vending machine to waste some time. He shoots a glance at M’s glass walled office, now empty. The desk still decorated by that hideous ceramic bulldog sitting there as if waiting for its master that will never come back to claim him again.

“Kind of makes itself lovable, isn’t it?”

Eve Moneypenny passes him by pushing the blindex door and enters the office. She’s carrying a black little box where she puts the ceramic piece of ornament inside. She closes the lid and turns to Q, who’s silently watching her.

“This is part of the final will’s reading, believe it or not,” the female agent gathers a couple of other personal items from the desk and walks to the door, “We’ll be introduced to the new M at the operation base in a couple of minutes.”

“Not here?”

“Wouldn’t make a pretty impression,” Moneypenny draws a smile on her painted lips and winks, “Long night? I didn’t see you here past midnight.” So, she noticed the bags under his eyes.

“Sort of,” Q walks her down the corridor and picks three folders from a desk, placing them under his arm.

“Well, that’s strange. I never see you leave before one am when we are working on special shifts. Something came up?”

Q rubs his elbow with the free hand. He doesn’t mind the casual morning chat but he does not appreciate people getting too deep into his whereabouts outside work, especially if it involves someone from the office.

“Oh, it did.”

He recognizes the voice coming from behind from last night. Bond walks in and grins at the woman, earning a quizzical amused look from her. Q feels the hairs of his neck stand at the proximity of the man because when he told him he’d be expected, he never imagined it would be –that- early. Eve purses her lips together and offers him a side glance, “I wasn’t informed of this?”

“He came to the rescue last night. Helped me to sort things up quite smoothly” the older man replies.

“I’m sure he did.”

Q feels there’s a hidden interpretation in Eve’s words and he’s damn sure the woman can read in between lines. It was a bloody pint after a mission. What’s the big deal about it? Even more, he identifies some sarcasm in that voice and that doesn’t make much sense at all, “But I don’t want to entertain you any further. Gentlemen.” She offers both a sly smile and clutches the black box tighter before she walks out of sight.

Q keeps his own folders under his arm and waits, unable to anticipate what to do next. He clears his throat in order to gain some attention but that doesn’t feel necessary because he’s been left alone with Bond and he’s not going anywhere.

He doesn’t _feel_ like going anywhere. 

He wants a word.

 _Something_.

“I made it on time, after all” says the man, so close his words are a gentle whisper against his ear.

“As expected,” Q replies, never meeting his eyes. He turns to the vending machine and slides his ID against the payment slot, waiting for his _Go ahead!_ crispy apple flavored snack to be delivered.

They remain standing there for a couple of seconds without saying a word. Q bites his lips trying to find some words to cut the alienated climate descending upon them. Last night, he had waited until sleep found him picturing Bond’s face in his head, back then at the dim light of the pub. And everything went fairly normal until he started noticing the man’s mouth.

“How long did you stay there last night?” Q finally asks.

“Can’t remember. Until my brain shut itself down, I suppose.”

“Then how did you get back home with a half dead brain?” he inquires, opening the plastic package of his snack.

“There are methods that can be perfected with time,” Bond rests his weight against the vending machine and observes him with interest, “Next time I’m paying your cab.”

Q doesn’t have enough time to react to the (invitation?) suggestion to consider a second round because a guard arrives and informs them that the cars are waiting to take them to the original headquarters. He finishes his cookie in a hurry and goes back to his working station to pick up his jacket. The cold and the lack of calories in the morning isn’t a very pleasant combination for his anatomy.

When Gareth Mallory introduces himself as the new head of the organization, there are only a few surprised among the personnel. He is, no doubt, one of the most adept and efficient for the position, besides being the only one who always supported the, now defunct M in the task. Politically, he also shows a sensation of security with the Parliament and that will be a great deal at requesting more subsidies to increase the budget related to equipment and investigation. That produces a sense of satisfaction in Q. The meeting is over after a couple of congratulations and expressions of desire for a bright future on the enterprise.

“A word in private, Q,” the newly appointed boss requests.

He turns back to face him and nods. He could see from the corner of his eye that Bond stopped too but continues his way outside with the rest.

“There’s actually no need to applaud you about your performance at the very end of this case, and I do hope you’ll continue doing it the same way in a near future,” the new M adjusts his shoulder immobilizer a bit. Only god knows how unbearable he’d be if he couldn't use his arm to work comfortably.

“I appreciate it, sir.”

“Anyways, “I’d like to be able to count on your presence more regularly in my office. Not only to keep me personally informed of the advances of the cases but also to hear about the needs of your department.” He pauses while tracing the edge of one of the black folders on his desk with the tip of his fingers.

“That’s very considerate of you, sir.” The buttons of his shirt are at about to sky-rocket right at that moment from his inflated ego. M’s words sound genuine and truthful.

“I hope I’ll be seeing you more often.”

Q’s smile fades in a grin of shame at the sound of his words. He wants to jump and beam like a ridiculous teen for his achievements and at the same time remain still and unaffected from his professional role and simply accept that his presence was merely required for what he does best.

“Of course, sir. I’m at your service,” he acknowledges.

“That’s all. Good day, Q”

Lifting his index finger to his mouth, biting in in order to dissimulate his smile of self-satisfaction, the Quartermaster leaves the office. This is like a huge green light for every imaginable and ambitious project he could sketch in his mind from now on. He won’t have to contemplate the problem of the budget provided any more. Or at least he hopes so. Excellent news related to work makes him a happy, more cheerful man.

His thoughts are interrupted when he notices Bond staring at him with a hand in his pocket and a serious face. Bond reminds him of a panther, lazily confident in his demeanor, but his muscles still coiled as though readying for a strike. A couple of seconds later he slowly approaches.

“Tonight, then?”

Q tilts his head to the side and squints, confused. Double oh seven’s jaw seems a bit tense and his blue pools are fixed on his own.

“I guess?” he answers without considering it too much.

“I’ll pick you up later,” Giving off an adamant vibe, the man abruptly takes off towards one of the nearby exits. There’s evidently something bothering him and Q probably won’t understand until tonight when they meet again, or at least that’s what he thinks.

Another evening with Bond. And this time it’s not related to any particular post-traumatic episode. Perhaps it’s part of the same as yesterday, only with a different timing.

The rest of the day is spent between routinely investigation work and the return to the old headquarters building. The coordination of the moving is more frustrating than physically exhausting. Apparently it’s too much to ask for the boxes of equipment to be transferred respecting the especially requested order. On the other hand, agent double oh nine’s moves in Thailand are going smoothly according to what was planned. The only things he adds are two extra escape routes from the last established position, just in case.

Every once in a while he withdraws his attention to look around. He feels someone is observing him but when he travels the place with his eyes, the only thing he can see is people working on their own stuff and men pushing boxes from Churchill’s abandoned bunker to the trucks waiting outside.

Before the announced encounter, Q goes into the bathroom, washes his face and looks at himself in the mirror. The incipient beard left little to be desired but it wasn’t something to lose sleep over. He waters his fingers just a bit and combs his hair with them, trying to arrange it into something that looks more decent. The glasses require a bit of water and soap after all the dusty movement today.

He clutches his satchel closer to his hip and holds his ID card without marking his exit yet. He doesn’t want to check out and stay there waiting like a girlfriend to be picked up or stood up. He catches a glimpse of double of seven approaching and instantly slides his card, freeing himself.

“I’ve got the car outside,” he states nodding towards the exit.

The Aston Martin DBS is parked near the grey underground door leading to King Charles Street. The first thing he notices is the smell of the black leather of the seats, brand new and hard and with its white seams on display. The gear shift and stereo details in shiny silver are so pleasing to the view he can hardly tear his eyes away from it.

They drove all the way to The Red Lion in silence and as they entered, Q feels his palm on the back of his neck, guiding him through the crowd to the empty spot against a window, a couple of tables away from last night’s. He stiffens at the gesture.

It’s almost… _intimate_.

They made it on time to order dinner consisting on cheese, biscuits and chutney. He picks a Honey Dew lager beer, with just a 5,0 % of alcohol proof because he doesn't want to make the consumption a habit and be a total wreck the next morning.

Besides he wanted to keep his tongue in place this time.

“Must be unsettling, right?” Bond finally starts, lifting the glass to his lips.

“This?” he wonders as he picks a piece of cheese with a toothpick.

“Hm.” The man raises his chin and puts the pint back on the table, “I must say you make a better company than I had imagined.”

So he’s been thinking about it too. Q lowers his gaze to the dark viscous sauce and licks his lips tainting them into a reddish wet fashion, “Well, I’m thankful for the compliments, I suppose. Yet I must confess I’m curious to know why I was picked from so many around.”

The other man seems to search the words to answer to that. “Because you were there. And I might be enjoying this.”

“That’s good.” The young Quartermaster plays with his tall glass feeling its cold sweat brush his fingers.

“Really good.”

Q chuckles and scratches behind his ear, looking down, “I guess I won’t get any golden stars from hanging with a double oh.”

“This isn’t part of your service to the organization. I thought I was making it clear,” Bond says clicking his tongue and raising both eyebrows.

“So I’m good at it,” he assumes.

“M noticed this early today, too?”

So either he’s been listening (something Q sure thought wasn’t the case) or else he was smart enough to add two plus two when he got out of his office. And now he sounds actually curious about it.

“He did, or at least that was my impression.”

“He expects only the best of you,” and with a hand in the air he gestures the waitress at the bar for another round. Q’s glass isn’t even half way empty.

“After all we _are_ responsible of the useful features of your fancy toys,” if he wasn’t particularly proud of his job, Q didn’t know what he was truly doing there.

“You do more than that.”

There again. That sensation in his chest. He feels his ears burning as they turn into a bright shade of red. Today’s been full of praises and admiration and he felt that a bit excessive. He wants to go home and relax in the safety of his apartment with his laptop on the bed and the telly as background noise. But sharing dinner with Bond is pleasant and exciting, a new sensation he wants to explore and allow himself dive into.

“Do you often flatter people working for you?” he asks, taking a deep intake of breath. He picks a small piece of cheese and hungrily eats it giving up on his nervousness.

“I never give unnecessary flattering. Ever.”

Sometime later, Bond asks for the bill after only two pints which is rare for him. Maybe he’s considering the fact that screwing with Q’s sleeping schedule is not the wisest move and he offers to give him a ride back home.

The car stops at the front of Q’s building. He feels anxious at the moment of his departure, still remaining on the copilot seat, expecting who knows what. Unsure of what to do next, he grabs his satchel from the floor and turns to face him. Obscenely amused, Bond allows his eyes to travel up and down Q’s torso. Q clenches his fists on the fake leather top of the bag and he feels stupidly naked. Keyword being naked.

“I’m off,” he mutters aiming for the door handle.

“Off you go. Good night.”

He climbs the door stairs and gets into the lobby. When he hears the engine roaring again, he peeks outside to watch the red car lights leaving him behind.

He takes his customary shower after work and stays there, his damp hair hiding his boyish features as he stares to the floor. The weird sensation in his stomach remains and he closes his eyes trying to gain back his self control. Once in bed, he doesn’t turn on the laptop as usual and turns the lights off laying on his pajama pants and white cotton loose shirt, staring into the nothing itself. That is when he registers an urgent need under his navel.

_Well, fuck me._

 

…

 

The following day he climbs MI6’s stairs to the main hall in a hurry and drops his belongings into his assigned locker. Today he’s paying more attention to his surroundings, looking for a certain someone. Until M requests his presence at his office.

Agent James Bond is set to start a new mission.


	3. Chapter 3

From every pixel screen he follows patterns of movement of people coming and going out of the room.

A new mission starts and that means he’s back into reality where there’s no time for childish crushes and midnight ponderings. He’s studying every face and suspicious attitude from total strangers interacting with the environment and its protagonists. Tower 42 is a maze of different races, administrative office personnel, business men and delivery boys, and the task of finding a particular individual in all this is a madman’s job. Fourteen pairs of eyes examine every inch of the corridors, searching for a sign. Any sign, really. A hint of someone giving himself or herself away. Someone who could be identified as the perpetrator. Maybe inconsistent eye contact with an accomplice. Eyes avoiding cameras and the gazes of passersby. Determined footsteps. A suspicious briefcase.

According to _Industrial Minerals_ , a specialist publication that monitors rare earths trading, there are five new minerals classified as “rare” that could be used to manufacture items such as mobile phones, lightbulbs, and exquisitely labored jewelry. They can be extracted in sufficient quantities to replace other elements, such as cerium, lanthanum or can be artificially created within similar mixes as to emulate allotropes of carbon. This represents a huge economical benefit for large companies to earn more using cheap resources.

But like many things in this life, it was a lie. Ten were the rare minerals found – not five, as was believed by the general populous. And the investigation of their viability for commercial and industrial exploitation has been supported by four nations, one of them being England. The information is stored in four pieces, one for each participant in their actual locations: Tokyo, Istanbul, Dubai and, of course, London. Disc One with part of the investigation was stolen from Turkey, which set the alarm to the rest of the players in the game. And everybody started sharpening more than their pencils to solve this situation. Lists were made with the best agents and Bond’s name was included. Disco Two disappeared and yes, it is London’s which was stored inside Tower 42 at Old Broad Street.

Who’d think the old building of concrete and steel could be a secret fortress, hiding a precious portion of knowledge at its 34th floor? 

Q’s department has to identify the thief or group of thieves who sneaked into the triple security level and stolen the hard disk. And that way, they could trace the other piece. Yes, a busy morning but he will find the son of a bitch, sooner or later. Every job is a test of his abilities and that’s what puts the spice besides the making of sophisticated gadgets.

_“You do more than that.”_

Him.

Occupying his thoughts once more from the back of his mind. It’s getting really difficult to work like this. Even if he hadn't seen him in this morning yet.

Q knows about this feeling, back when he was in secondary school and was noticed for the first time in his life in a romantic way. If you can call “romantic” making out with a high school sophomore guy at a party followed by a couple of more encounters in the console room of the school auditorium. A very few girls considered him “cute” and even if that was an insult to his ears, he never let that put him down at the moment of a fling because yes, he had been told he’s a pretty handsome man despite his rather skinny figure. There have been a good number of light relationships that never lasted more than two or three days due to his occupied agenda and life style.

Even to this day, he prefers hanging out with friends online or gatherings at some café from time to time than dating and wasting his time in trying to understand someone that, to begin with, never caught his interest beyond casual sex. And then, there was Hugh. He technically was his _real_ first time at everything. But that story doesn’t involve as many fuzzy feelings like his old high school crush.

The search at Tower 42. Right.

But, damn, he was eating him with his eyes last night inside that car.

_Not now._

Q shakes his head and concentrates again on the light blue screens in front of him. He frowns and mentally situates himself in what involves a regular office’s daily schedule for any employee. A set of well established hours to do certain tasks and go through the same paths every single day. If there’s a variation there, he could notice the change.

Security guard at 05:41 arrives and checks the dependences connected to the hallway. Red headed secretary girl carries her boss’ agenda between 08:00 and 08:10 to his office. Man hanging outside cleaning the windows with his circumaural headphones at 08:20. The day before his blonde companion was aiding him. Today he’s absent due to family illness. And so he goes to the previous day, and the one before and so on registering the faces of the security men and cleaning staff.

_There. Ah-hah._

Three days before the robbery, a short haired middle-aged Indian looking man with the large vacuum cleaner was replaced by a long haired young man leerily checking his surroundings. The man lingered a little longer than necessary in one of the side corridors that lead to the vaults.

Wait a minute.

Q zooms in the ID badge of the Indian man and freezes the picture. Then he proceeds and does the same with the long haired man. The name in both tags are exactly the same, “Madhuk Duranjaya” and that only means the fake Madhuk took down the original or made him disappear in some way. The Quartermaster does a quick search on the employee’s database and he confirms that the man has been fired the same day the robbery happened.

“Got him.”

Eve Moneypenny leaves her desk and comes over to Q, gazing at the man's profile over the quartermaster's shoulders. Anyim Maalouf. Last living location, medical records, jobs, organizations he’s been involved with and every bit of his criminal records including a resistance guerrilla in South Africa. No cellphone to track, and that was a given.

“It makes sense,” she comments, “Africa’s one of the largest mineral industries in the world.”

“Quite correct.” With a movement of his fingers, Q clicks on the credit card information to find any clue about what his last money movements are. And there he goes, receiving an insane amount of Euros transferred to his bank account. But no purchases so far.

Now, if people could skip stupid things like making up a fake company to make money transfers everything would be simpler and he could go back home early. But oh, no. The contractor made the deposit at Horsburg, a piece of wild ground surrounded by water belonging to the Keeling Islands. The satellite image shows a piece of land with no population, no buildings, no village and in the middle of nowhere.

“A little too much for a cleaning guy,” Eve says counting the number of zeros after the first two digits of the amount of money.

“I’m putting him at the top of the list.” Q turns around to a blonde girl at his left and she immediately starts typing on her computer, separating the file on screen and adding him to a specific listing of suspects.

Now it’s time to wait and let the rest of the team continue with the research on this man’s acquaintances and associations. 

He grabs the blue folder under the fluorescent lamp on his desk and flips through the pages with the specific characteristics of a new production of tracking microchip implants. The latest version must be reduced from 0.1mm to half its size, he notes. He walks towards the R&D branch and two steps later he bumps against a thick, massive chest. He adjusts his crooked glasses and starts to apologize when his words are cut by surprise.

It’s him.

“Morning,” Bond greets with a faint smile and the wrinkles around his mouth curve around the shapes of his lips.

Q breathes a “good morning“ and stays very still locking his eyes into his, “I have to go… to R&D.”

“By all means, proceed,” he says taking a ceremonious step to his side, gesturing with his hand.

The young Quartermaster grimaces and continues his way straightening his shoulders in a lame attempt to regain his composure. Playing cat and mouse with a coworker is twenty times harder than decoding any encryption algorithm while hanging upside down from a roof and with _Dancing Queen_ blasting at full volume in the background.

He reaches his destination and starts discussing the methods to achieve their goal. After a while his eyes are killing him from supervising the construction of nanotechnology and he skips lunch. He starts from scratch over and over again unsuccessfully making different printed circuit boards and he’s at about to give up when his stomach starts to protest loudly. A little break won’t hurt anyone.

He picks a salami sandwich from a fridge and walks mind-absently around with his headphones on, listening to deadmou5’s _Ghosts and Stuff._ Electro-house music works wonders to get in trance at work but it sounds like a bad porno song when a certain someone steps into the light of sight. 

Bond’s talking with Eve in a shamelessly flirtatious fashion and suddenly Q’s sandwich turns sour in his mouth. He brushes the tip of his tongue against his molar and his tie constricts the veins on his throat. He watches them as they whisper something into each other’s ears.

Q takes a moment to rest against a table and ponders. Perhaps it’s time to figure out what’s all this about and get over it, right? The problem with uncertainty is that no matter how much you try to push a thought away, it will always come back to bite you in the ass.

And he doesn’t need that now. Not with the kind of pressure you get from following a sneaky rat in a mission like this. He won’t commit the same mistakes he did with Silva. He can’t make himself look like a fool with the whole department and have so many eyes judging him for being a pretentious little boy.

 _It’s just talk_ , he thinks pushing his fears of rejection and reading bad signals away, and after licking his fingers off he walks towards Bond. He pats the broad suit clad back and he can detect musky cologne in the air when the agent turns around.

“Can I ask you something?” he ventures, trying to sound casual. “In private.”

Moneypenny leaves them in the middle of the cream colored corridor biting her bottom lip, evidently displeased at his interruption. Q’s back is full of knots but he gains confidence as he leaves one ear plug stuck against his ear. The electronic beats pounding against his tympanum worked to soothe his anxiety. He found his heartbeat slowing down just enough for him to keep a calm and collected composure. Attitude is everything, after all.

“I’m not sure how to approach this but I think it’s my turn to pick a place,” he starts, brushing a dark lock of curly hair behind his ear. He’s not the frontal type but eh, it’s a good start if he’s stepping into unknown territory.  

The Scot crosses his arms against his chest and eyes him with interest. “Tonight?”

“In light of present events and the probability of a hasty departure from your end, I believe that yes, tonight would be preferential,” he states taking a look towards the end of the hall to check for listening ears.

Normally, a talk with an agent wouldn’t bother Q at all, but the doubts he harbors right now about said agent are making him paranoid. He’s sharing some kind of closeness unaware by the rest and he wants to protect it.

With no further notice, Bond leans forward and rests a palm against the wall very close to Q’s face, slightly invading his personal space. “Then where should we go?”

At this proximity, the Quartermaster can smell the aftershave and the faint breath of morning espresso. He takes a step back and finds himself trapped between the wall and the body in front of him eclipsing his frame against the cement at his back. Hesitantly, he lowers his eyes to the lines of Bond’s nose down to his thin lips and he fights back his impulses to do something stupid.

“The Black Dog,” he answers and yes, he’s been thinking about that place forever if he ever went again on a date because it’s quiet and small. Besides it’s down at Vauxhall and opposite the Spring Gardens, only a few blocks away from the MI6 and it’s strategically close to headquarters for a reason. He’s definitely going to do this and ask him what it is exactly going on between them. He’s quite sure what kind of answer he wants, but if everything crumbles he has a quick escape route to seek for shelter into MI6 and get himself back together. 

“Perfect. I’ll wait at the lobby,” Bond says and he shifts his weight back in place slipping away from Q, disappearing under the warm lights of the hall.

Q watches him go and everything in his senses begins to cool down. His breaths are shallow and shaky despite his decently pulled poker face. If the man didn’t leave a minute later, he’s not sure how long he would have been able to keep his shakiness concealed.    

_This is wrong. All wrong._

He forcefully removes himself from the wall and lets everything fall into place. He asked him out. He’s just _fucking_ _asked him out_ and that’s borderline to date. Scratch that, _it is_ a date.

 _Personnel relationships are, indeed, dangerous_ , he ponders.

Especially if something between your legs is boldly tightening the front of the fabric of your trousers.

With an expression of horror, he starts pacing around the second floor of MI6 trying to hide his visible erection hoping that the movement will cover up the awkward bulge, but his body is betraying him making him blush even more with every step. He feels everyone is staring at him walking like a maniac from one point to the other of the hall. He can’t go back to work like this with over twenty workers around wondering if that’s a gun or an overly happy Quartermaster so he finally moves to the third floor and goes into the first bathroom door he finds. A public, non employees’ bathroom. Perfect.

Standing in front of the toilet he unzips his trousers and rests his weight with a palm against the tiled wall inside the cubicle. _This is ridiculous_ , he thinks as his left hand pulls the waistband of his boxers down and his fingers find the skin beneath. He jerks himself off as fast as he can because he generally doesn’t occupy more than ten minutes for lunch. He painfully bites his lower lip at his release, making a super human effort to silence the noises coming from his throat. The only thing worse than this blatant humiliation, in spite of the fact that he was alone, would be if a john joined him in this wanking adventure. And why the hell is he thinking such morbid things now anyways? He cringes at the idea and pulls himself back together in one piece before leaving the closed space.

With both palms resting on the sink, he stares at himself in the mirror.

_Breathe._

 

…

 

“Admit it. _Also in the news_ is brilliant.”

Q takes another bite of mushroom on toast and shakes his head, amused. The conversation started from the G8 and trade protectionism, moving to Prince William dancing in Tuvalu with Kate, and now it’s about the BBC online version and its laughable and bizarre section. The idea of asking Bond out wasn’t such a bad idea after all. They kept the conversation going without any rough patches or awkward silences and that was an intense relief to Q.  For the first time in a while, Q felt at ease talking with someone related to work outside their professional environment.

He notices Bond can laugh when he’s seemingly relaxed and drums his fingers against any surface he has at hand when he’s formulating an idea. He also becomes aware that the reason for his predatory gaze is due to the darker colored edges of the ciliary zone of his icy irises, which he finds beautiful despite its aggressive appearance. Much like a wolf’s eyes.

The lines of his facial expressions, traced with the enduring of an orphan’s life are like a map of the past. He wonders what would it feel like to trace them with his fingers, to explore what’s beneath. 

“Oh yes, full of substantial information for the masses,” the young man answers.

“Cheers to that,” he rejoices, lifting his pint in mid air.

“Are you seriously trying to convince me that the first thing you do in the morning is read about a woman who ran across Wales wearing her wedding gown to set a new record?” Q asks in disbelief.

Bond lifts a finger at him, “Aha. You read, it too.”

The Quartermaster chokes in his ginger ale and gives in. “I’m not falling for that,” he exclaims.

“What, scared to let your guard down with me?”

Q’s eyes drop to the dish as he toys with his fork and the mushrooms. He was expecting something like this during the night because after all, this was all his idea to begin with. But he isn’t quite ready for stepping into the topic of their current relationship.

“Maybe.”

Several moments pass in silence until he realizes Bond is paying the bill and leaving a tip over the worn out wood table. Q understands and words are not necessary anymore to know they are leaving and dinner is over.

The wet pavement shines with the Vauxhall lights by the Thames. They slowly walk side-by-side in silence pretending to not register each other’s presence. It’s chilly outside but he’d endure, shrugging it off because there’s something way more important going on.

He wants to know.

It’s now or never.

He stops at one of the ornamental cast-iron street lights. Keeping his back to Bond, he stares at the enormous fish sculpture, tracing its scales. The soft light illuminates the rich dark brown strands of his hair trying to find the words in his mind to continue with this. He hears a couple of steps approaching from behind and then, the silence. He needs to be sure if he wants to make this jump and screw up a professional relation or keep it all inside and continue with the absurdity of this affair. But he has to make a choice or else he’ll go mad.

He turns around to find a very calm Bond waiting.

His heart is pounding like a wild horse in his chest and he’s sure of the next step, but he’s afraid and excited at the same time. He glides up to the man until they are separated by no more than a few centimeters of space. Bond doesn’t move an inch but silently looks at him. Q blinks softly as the lights of the cars passing by are reflected on the crystals of his glasses and he finally lifts his chin upwards.

And his phone vibrates in the back pocket of his trousers.

“Ah, er…” he stammers, reaching for his back. Coincidentally, Bond imitates the gesture and Q realizes the call must come from the same origin. It’s a text message: Anyim Maalouf bought a ticket to Dubai leaving in two hours and Q’s required to go back to headquarters.

Double oh seven locks the touch screen of his mobile and redirects his attention to MI6 at the other side of the river.

“Let’s hurry.”

“Yes.”

Quartermaster and 00 Agent dash to MI6 headquarters. Once inside, Q throws his jacket off to a nearby chair and he observes Maalouf’s face plastered on one screen and the boarding schedule. He’s not alone. Three other men bought plane tickets right after him occupying the nearby seats. Their background files connect them to the first one so there’s no place left for doubts, they are escaping with the disk and moving to the next location.

Mallory enters Q’s department followed by Moneypenny. He’s standing next to him reading the information on screen.

“Bond, I don’t think I need to explain where you’re going tonight. Do you require backup?”

“No, sir.” Hands in pockets, Bond throws a glance at Eve. “Unless you’re planning to go back in the field?”

The woman points at him with her index finger mimicking a gun out of Mallory’s sight and winks, “No, thanks. But you need a new partner.”

“I’m good on my own,” he answers. It sounds like an unconscious defensive attitude. Double oh seven's good at hiding things but not as impeccable as he gives himself credit for.

“I’m not planning on taking any risks. I’m sending a hunting pack with you. Have we heard any word from the airport?” M asks to one of the men in the room.

“They’ve targeted him, sir.”

“And?” he insists.

“No trace of the disk, sir. But he’s been plugged.”

The surveillance cameras show that the man is scratching his neck and waiting in line to pass through the TSA screening area. One of the three sixty cameras zoom in on one of the airport officers moving the metal detector up and down the man’s body and with a soft pat in his back, he urges him to continue. The gesture was used to transfer a black locator the size of a tiny bean to his jacket. Following should be easier from now on.

“Q, the equipment,” M orders and the young man nods. “Good luck, Bond,” he adds. With a nod of acknowledgement, the brand new M leaves the area closely followed by Moneypenny.

“Right. Come with me, double oh seven.”

Q pushes the doors aside and they walk, together, into the elevator. He feels warmth creeping at the back of his neck and he’s tense. Minutes ago he was just at about to cross the line and now everything about his interactions with Bond feel awkward and unnatural. It’s like getting caught watching porn by your parents and getting a big family dinner immediately afterwards.  

Both men remain silent inside the metal box until they reach destination. Once inside the lab, the Quartermaster starts pulling out boxes in different sizes from the cabinets against the walls in a hurry.

“The weapon is exactly the same as last time. But, here’s something new,” he gestures lifting a small box. He opens the plastic cover and inside there’s a pair of translucent contact lenses stuck against a black undulated shape. “A new alloy of polycarbonate that adjusts itself to the body heat and prevents direct damage from shards of glass or bullet splinters,” he pauses as the other man turns to look at him questioningly. “Bulletproof contact lens, basically.” Bond nods in approval, impressed and he closes the lid.

“This,” he explains showing an object that looks like a silver lipstick case, “it’s a signal interrupter for CCTV. Nullifies every image sensor in a thirty-two feet radius but it won’t last more than ten seconds.”

Q turns around to type something on the black computer at his back, hits the print command with trembling fingers and the printer obeys his wishes. He places the plane ticket in an envelope and hands it to Bond. “You have five hours until departure so you’ll be able to make it on time if you leave now. And that would be all for now,” he finishes never meeting his eyes.

“Good.”

“Well, there’s work to do,” he says, clasping his hands in front of him and without waiting any other reply and being followed by double oh seven, he exits the room.

He’s thankful now he didn’t mess things up or else everything would be harder to face. Harder than it already is, anyways. His tongue plays with a tiny bit of mushroom stuck at one of his molars and waits for the elevator to stop at their level. He knows Bond is checking his toys and is unintentionally ignoring him but he doesn’t mind; it’s part of the deal of working with people who are easy to impress with flashy gadgets for every mission they go to. 

Q sighs deeply and looks up, unable to think of what else to do anymore. A moment later he frowns. The red dot on the security camera should be on but it’s off. That’s odd.

The elevator arrives, but a firm arm turns him around and, suddenly, his lips are sealed against Bond's.

_He’s kissing him._

Reluctantly he closes his eyes and allows himself be drawn towards the agent’s chest. Though it's a soft, gentle kiss, Bond sucks slightly on Q's lower lip, brushing his mouth repeatedly against his. He feels the heat coming from the other body and the warmth of his skin against his cheeks. One arm is trapped between Bond’s grip and his own body and the other moves down, searching for his fingers. The other man is holding the button of the CCTV interrupter pressed against his palm, and everything makes sense.

The elevator doors slide open and the agent lets go of him. With a gentle push, Bond moves him inside but remains standing in the corridor.

“Next time, I’ll let you pick the place again.”

And the steel doors close, leaving Q alone in the four walls of the elevator, staring at his own reflection. He lifts his fingertips to feel the wetness of his reddish tainted mouth, tracing the places where the Scot has touched him. What seemed to be less than ten seconds according to the piece of technology he just gave him, felt like hours and now he remembers to breathe again. Because normal actions like walking, talking or breathing aren’t meant to be taken seriously when you are being kissed like that. The elevator stops and he takes three slow steps forward.

He’s been marked.

Like fucking prey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some references about real scenarios/institutions/etc:
> 
> * Tower 42: is the second-tallest skyscraper in the City of London and the seventh tallest in Greater London.  
> * Industrial Minerals: is a publication, an specialized online service (supported by a monthly print magazine) covering all aspects of the non-metallic minerals industry.  
> * The Black Dog: it's a pub at Vauxhall, not too far from MI6 HQ. The food and drinks Bond and Q order comes straight from the menu. You can check it here: http://www.theblackdogvauxhall.com/


	4. Chapter 4

_In the vivid morning_  
 _I wanted to be myself._  
 _A heart._

_And at the evening's end_  
 _I wanted to be my voice._  
 _A nightingale._

_**“Ditty of First Desire.”**    
Federico García Lorca. _

 

Sometimes Q wishes he could smoke.

People smoke for different reasons. Some do it in on lunch break at work to release tensions. Other people do it after sex. Sometimes, writers smoke to call the muses of inspiration. And some people do it when they want take a moment for themselves and sort things out in their heads. Or maybe they smoke just for the hell of it.

But no chemical is going to help him figure out what happened last night, as much as he so desires it to happen.

The Quartermaster pulls his knees closer to his chest and stares at the glass panels of the window. Everything in his apartment looks different today; brighter. The cream colored curtains hide the gray sunlight of a cloudy London morning from the adjoining walls. The white walls of his living-room silently watch over him and the uneven stripes of the wooden floor warm up the place. Everything’s shiny and clean, including the oak coffee table, the ordered books, video games and movies in the built-in shelves right next to the flat screen TV.  But inside him… everything’s actually out of place.

_Silence._

His eyelids fall. He’s trying to block the heat flooding his chest but he can still picture, still remember, with perfect detail, Bond’s cheek against his own. He can savor the memory of Bond’s callouses against his own soft fingers… and the sensation of momentary completion.

He jerks into awareness as though thunder had suddenly awoken him from a deep slumber. Why would such a light brush of skin be so powerful that it could move your center and make you lose your balance?

Q raises a finger to trace, once again, the contour of his lips, soft and wet. They have a life of their own. They want to meet double oh seven’s again.

_How can you miss something that’s not even yours to claim?_

He can hear the movement of cars as the day is beginning and people are waking up from a night’s sleep. He couldn’t get any. He went to bed and picked up one of the many unfinished books he started reading, because he didn’t feel like getting online. It was useless. Gaming or talking with any of his friends was just a waste of time because he wasn’t interested in anything other than his own thoughts. Even then he couldn’t make sense of a single sentence of the book after re-reading it five times. His mind was somewhere else. So he woke up, got some warm milk with honey and went to the living-room to sit on the sofa.

_What has he done to me?_

Something nice. He has to repeat that to himself to believe it. After the unfinished matter by the Thames, Bond picked up from the last moment and kissed him, putting a bloody end to the whole matter. He was just being nice. Just a simple kiss.

Q shuts his eyes tight remembering a similar occurrence in the past. An occurrence that had stung his heart.

It started just like that a year and half ago with Hugh. He met him at a café while he was reading _Gipsy Ballads_ by Federico García Lorca and Hugh asked him about who was the translator of his version. A pretty obvious way to start a conversation, but he didn’t mind then. He found it actually nice.

Hugh was a chef at the Soho and his love for books and traveling brought them together. To have someone around who wasn't from his work medium was refreshing and Q enjoyed their nights tangled in bed reading or watching TV. A month later after they started seeing each other, he moved in with Q and everything was going great until he picked up Hugh’s cellphone after some insistent ringing and saw an unfamiliar number with an ID photo of them kissing each other. The confrontation was not pretty and Hugh admitted that Q was not the man of his life. He then told him to keep all of his feelings to himself because he, Hugh, was done. It was over.

 _Not the man of his life._ The implication of six simple words marked him with fire, tormenting him day and night.

Hugh left that afternoon.

Q never saw him again.

He swore that he wouldn't let anyone enter his life so easily again, no matter how sweet they appeared to be on the outside. This concept of nice people being fond of him had been stepped on and he's still hesitant to opening himself to others. ~~~~

Bond is nice with him. He’s been decent so far, taking him out for a beer or a casual dinner and just… _being_ with him. He’s a bit of a jerk sometimes but he’s not at the same level than Hugh, that’s for sure.

_He’s not Hugh._

The worst part is, Bond’s probably going through the check-in at the airport right now and obviously not wasting a second thinking about him and what happened by the elevator doors. Q imagines him waiting at the boarding area with his coat in one arm and the plane ticket in the other. The same ticket he printed for Bond last night.

He rests his chin against his forearms on top of his knees and opens his eyes. It’s getting brighter by the minute and he should be getting ready to go to work.

_Life goes on._

Barefooted, he makes his way into his bedroom and changes, tossing the worn out retro Star Trek t-shirt he uses to sleep, on a chair.

On his way out, he quickly greets Ms. Norris, his neighbor next door on his 45-51 complex building in Mitre Road. Southwark is a good, quiet neighborhood. A residential area with three floor apartment buildings, bricked red walls and white cement moldings, black iron doors and fences.

MI6 is very active today. Bond in the field again means lots of work and that means lots of monitoring. Tanner left a file with the history of movements of the target.

“It’s the Burj Al-Khalifa all the way,” he informs. “Maalouf and friends checked in at 09:20. Bond should be arriving at any minute. The estimated time would be…” he pauses, looking at his wrist watch, “around midday. We need a pair of eyes inside the building right now. Could you…?”

“I can give you more than that,” says the young Quartermaster nonchalantly.

The keyboard is not fast enough to catch up with the rapid finger movements of Q’s hands. He needs to request a new laptop because the piece of plastic is so low quality, it’s irritating. He needs to talk about the renewal of some equipment with M later but for the moment, this is all he needs. Different windows open and close as he runs programs to exploit the vulnerability of the United Arab Emirates. Which is a laugh, because they aren’t the most intelligent when it comes to security.

In a couple of minutes he gains access to the building management system of the colossal tower of the Burj Al-Khalifa, surrounded by the translucent, multilayered swimming pool. He penetrates the internal camera network and gains access to the corporate offices, hotel and public spaces, the 900 residential suites, hundreds of offices and the observation deck. He picks ten out of the thousand eyes at the reception desk and elevators for starters and leaves the main menu to select more for later, in case of need. Confirming Maalouf’s suite on the guests’ data base takes only seconds. His key’s been checked so he must be in his room right at the moment.

Now he only needs to triangulate the area searching for the thief’s cellphone ID. Methodically, he reduces the spaces of the covered area and reaches the signal of the specific device. _There_.

With a smile, he turns to face Tanner, reminding him once again why _he_ is the head of the department.

“Yes, that’s better,” says Tanner, shaking his head in defeat at the ridiculous display of capacity. “Now we have to wait until he makes a call or gets out of the room.”

“If he’s going to steal the disk, why not taking it out of the country?” Q’s distracted by one of the rookies by his side. A petite redhead girl carries his mug with delicious green tea, his personal choice of variety for the regular Earl Grey. He takes it with a faint smile, a “thank you,” and returns to the task with Tanner.

Oblivious to his eyes, a subordinate at his back nudges his partner to share a hidden secret grin on the episode. The girl must be new and have a crush on him, like many before. But just like her predecessors, she’ll fall into the disillusioned legion of people he doesn’t register for anything else than giving orders to. Oh, well.

“I don’t think he was a decoy,” answers Tanner lifting one of the pages of the folder in his hands, “We found two other related men who did not leave on that plane. They are being tracked as we speak.”

“About double oh nine,” Q starts, but is quickly interrupted by the other man.

“Gather a team and relegate the mission. This takes priority.”

 _Of course it does_ , the Quartermaster thinks, swallowing his beverage. When you are the coolest kid on the block with your brand new toy and you share it only with your three best friends, you’d get pissy if an outsider decides to snatch it. And even if your best friends are eager to help you out, there’s a slight chance one of them secretly wants to keep it for, too. And sometimes, England can be a very, very angry kid.

 

…

 

So as not to hurt his already tired eyes, Q adjusts the focal light of the large extendable lamp hanging from the bedroom ceiling. He’s ironing one of the white shirts for work because he ran out of clean ones. Every night he washes and irons at least one to keep it in line with four others he rotates every day, but since they are taking special shifts, he doesn’t have as much time left to follow the daily routine. When it happens, he gets home, throws his satchel on the couch, kicks his shoes and jacket off and collapses in bed. And good night to you too, tidiness.

His smartphone starts buzzing on top of the king-sized light brown cover of his bed. After carefully placing the iron back on the ironing table, he takes the call.

“Charles Dewey here, Sir. I’m calling on the behalf of Chief Tanner to inform about a situation,” a voice said on the other side.

“Yes?”

His subordinate, on the other side of the line clears his voice and Q notices some nervousness. “Special access has been granted for Agent 007 to access your personal computer, sir.”

From the laid back position he was sitting, the young man snaps his back upright in a jolt of surprise, “What?”

“Mr. Bond has requested a direct line with you and you only. He…” the man pauses and there’s a sound of papers at the background, “He states that your assistance is especially required due to the complexity of this mission.”

“There’s a whole bloody department for it,” he answers, ill-concealing his annoyance.

“Yes, we’ve tried to convince him about it, sir.”

“And?” he replies, prying his laptop open on top of the small desk by the window, facing the lamp-lit road of his flat. He diverts his look to the Dalek-framed clock on the shelf near the nightstand lamp: it’s 04:42 am in London. So it must be 10:42 am in Dubai.

“He insisted. It’s been authorized by M, sir.” If Q was there right moment, he’s sure he'd see the colour drain from the other man's face after voicing the following words, “And he requested video conference access.”

The poor subordinate sounds afraid. And any mortal should be, if he has to call his boss at four in the morning after an insane day of work. But he has to take this, “Okay. Forge a clean channel. Give me Bond’s IP.”

Charles does as he’s told and Q switches his linux profile to one of the many he created for when he’s really paranoid about something. Cursing under his breath, he pulls the desk chair closer, sitting in front of the screen and waiting for Bond’s user to log in. He idly toys with the hem of his boxers and…

_Oh fuck._

He’s not wearing pants.

And he has the Domo-Kun light blue t-shirt on he uses for sleep.

The skinny man hurries to pull the drawers under the flat screen tv in front of the bed open, clumsily diving in piles of t-shirts that won’t look _that_ nerdy in the eyes of a stranger. He’s not used to video chat at all and he doesn’t care about his clothes in the sacred walls of his frigging apartment. Because he’s _at home_ and he’s suddenly _forced_ to this. And like any working man, he hates bringing home work-related stuff.

His bed is now full of a disarray of t-shirts; all in different colours and fandoms on them. And then he spots it, way back there, at the very back of the drawer: a simple white polo shirt with the MI6 logo. The one they gave him at Christmas time as part of a corporate gift bag. The tag’s still attached because he never actually used it.

He tosses the one he’s wearing and quickly puts the white on. Perfect. But now the bed is a mess and he hates to receive people at home like this. Why the hell is he putting so much care in his looks? And why the hell does he have to act like a frenetic housewife cleaning up for her friends coming over for a game of Bridge?

He stops in the middle of his musings when a screen on the laptop pops up, showing Bond’s face staring at something down, looking for something. Q gets back to reality.

Still no pants.

The young Quartermaster yelps and gets on all fours, crawling towards the closet like he’s hiding from an enemy at a trench. He peeks from the top of the bed to quickly check on the laptop screen and gets down again. He opens the closet door, grabs the first pair of trousers at hand and lays on his back, frantically sliding his legs through it.  

“Q?”

 _Bugger, bugger, bugger!_ He mentally curses. “One minute!” he yells, zipping his pants with shaky fingers. The faster you want to do something, the stupider your hands get.

“I can see your hair, you know.”

Q’s shuts his eyes closed and clenches his teeth. Slowly, he sits up and dares to look. A very amused Bond is resting his cheek against his fist at in the video chat window. He gulps. It feels amazingly odd to see the face of the man who kissed you a day ago for the first time, and through a led screen.

He stands up, rearranging his hair with his fingers and trying to walk as naturally as he can to the chair. He self-consciously pulls the bottom of his t-shirt down because in the battle of putting his pants on, it raised up above his flat, pale belly.

“Are you okay?” double oh seven asks with a chuckle. “Seems like you were having wardrobe malfunctions back there.”

“I’m fine.” Damn him and his quickness to ready people. Her Majesty's Finest must have been trained so efficiently they could observe all the details of their targets and, therefore, draw obvious and undeniable conclusions. “What do you want?”

“Oh, I’m glad to see you’ve arrived well, Bond. How was the flight? Just fine. Thanks for your interest, Q,” the older man mocks, brushing the short hairs of his head with a palm. His jacket’s off and his navy blue tie is loosely hanging from the white collar of his shirt. It’s half open at the top and soft, tannish pink patches of skin can be seen. Q averts his gaze.

“I’d greet you with a Caffe Nero espresso and a butter croissant but, you know,” Q narrows his eyes approaching a bit to the crystal eye of the built-in laptop camera, “It’s 04:50 am here and, oh! I’m not at work,” he says looking around in his room with an expression of mocking surprise. Back to his tired, slumped position he asks, “Again. What do you want?”

“A little bit of enlightenment here.” Double oh seven leans back in his chair and the younger man gets a clearer view of his surroundings. There’s a large continuous window pane that apparently covers the whole width of the wall behind Bond. The walls are dark colored and there’s a modern painting reminiscing Kandinsky’s work illuminated with a spot light. That thing must be worth the price of his flat.

“Shoot,” Q urges as he stands up, reaching for the cable of the iron and pulling it out.

“Maalouf’s not leaving his room. He ordered room service and your department told me he didn’t make a call. I was thinking if you could… Wait. What were you doing when I called?” Bond moves closer to the screen and narrows his eyes to his left corner, focusing his gaze on the cable in Q’s hand.

“Ironing. People have lives, Bond,” he answers with bothered sigh. He doesn’t give a fuck anymore, so he turns around and starts picking up the t-shirts on his bed, folding them. He places them back in the black drawers with the rest of the clothes.

“And he irons. Be still, my heart.”

The Quartermaster’s eyes rapidly move from the screen to the dark chest under the TV and back repeatedly. He goes silent and it seems like Bond understands he shouldn’t be pissing him off after a night of no sleep and lots of work to be done.

“I wanted to know if there’s a way to look into Maalouf’s suite, because this is one really tall tower and I don’t think we have any cameras to get an angle view from the outside,” he states, sitting back in his previous position.

“There’s always satellite,” he answers pushing the drawer closed. “I can try to access some reconnaissance satellites from EUSC. But I can’t promise anything about an angle that may satisfy your needs.”

Q takes a moment to open a random satellite image of the area and studies the whereabouts. Maalouf’s suit level of the Armani Hotel is the 38th  so that’s not so impossible to compare with the ones around. There are only a few buildings close and facing the windows of the suite where the man is staying. The HSBC bank is close, but camera at the highest floor, the 35th, only shows the ceiling of the suite. The Al Murooj Rotana is too far in the east and he can barely trace the edge of the windows of the following room. The reddish, exhausted hazel pupils finally rest on what seems to be the wisest choice: Dusit Dubai.

He can see Bond’s very still, watching him. If this happened at headquarters it would be easier to avoid his presence because he could move easily around. But with a system window capturing his presence and his face so close to his working screen, it’s difficult to ignore him. He takes a chance to peek and he sees Bond intently staring at him, his lips half parted and his nose resting on his knuckles. And Q’s feeling naked again.

“Here,” he starts, “I got access from Dusit Dubai. You can see the living-room and the bedroom.” He uses his remote access to move the camera window on Bond’s desktop and zooms in, providing a clear point of view. “I can’t do much about the sun reflection. But it’s something.”

“It’s good enough. How do I keep this going if I have to turn the laptop off?” double of seven asks.

“I’ll leave a direct access with a protocol so it automatically starts after you turn it on again,” he answers, biting back a snarky remark on how techno-illiterate the agent sounds. But he lets it pass. Bond’s way more intelligent and quicker than any other agent to pick up on the new advances his department provides. “So, that’s all?”

“For now, yes. Expect more of my charming presence on your computer in no distant future.”

“Oh. Can’t wait,” he answers flatly. There's a question lurking upon Q's tongue but he’s unsure about putting into words. He finally blurts it out, brushing his arm with a hand, “Is it necessary to enable video chat? I could have done the same with a phone.”

The man at the other side of the world twists his tongue in his mouth and raises both eyebrows, looking down. “Well,” he pauses, “I crave sugar in the morning.”

“I’m not edible, Mr. Bond.” And oh, shit. He has just dug his own grave right then.

“I beg to differ.”

Q raises one eyebrow in a vain attempt to appear surprised. But internally he feels like his heart is bumping so hard against his ribs it’s going to jump out of his chest and splatter against the keyboard at any given second. His throat goes dry and he chuckles attempting to brush off the implications of Bond’s comment and escape from the uncomfortable moment. “Right. I have to get going. I’ll be back online in an hour at MI6 if you need anything else.”

The man at the other side of the screen frowns and looks away, frustrated or annoyed, Q can’t tell. “Fine. I’ll get in touch. Good bye.” And with no further notice, his chat window goes black, leaving the Quartermaster staring blankly at the _user offline_ letters in front of him.

_Did he just get angry with me because I didn’t follow his stupid game? What the bloody hell?_

He leaves the desktop and takes a moment to fall back against the mattress of his bed, staring up at the white ceiling. He starts recollecting on what has just happened: he got no sleep, had to work at home, almost gets caught with his pants down with Bond and he’s just heard one compliment that crossed-over into flirtation. His life’s getting weirder by the minute.

...

“Double oh five requires authorization for access.”

The Quartermaster turns to face the worker addressing him. He holds his pen right above the supervising papers he was signing. “Specify.”

“London’s World Trade Centre security to corroborate a suspect’s checking in and out of the building,” answers the man holding the auricular of his phone in mid air.

“Granted,” Q replies as he turns the pages and checks the rest of the items. As he glances down, he notices the wrinkles of the sleeve of his shirt and mentally curses. He didn’t have enough time to finish the ironing because by the moment he finished talking with Bond, it was already time to leave to work again. He’s wearing a long sleeved dark green and black cardigan on top and a simple black tie, along with a pair of neat black pants. He hastily combed in his hair in the reflection of the mirror next to the exit door of his apartment and after checking at headquarters he took a moment to go to the bathroom and tidy it.

One of his phones, the one for personal use, is vibrating against the pocket of his trousers. He recognises the picture on the ID call and answers quickly.

“Sarah.”

“Brother.”

His sister, the only member of his family allowed to phone him, insisted on taking the picture to be used for the smartphone recognition feature. She’s holding the phone up looking at the camera, cross-eyed and grinning. She’s only two years older than Q but sometimes she behaves like a teen.  

“It’s Mother again, correct?” he starts as he walks out of the office area. On his way out of the common room, he smiles and nods at Maurice, the security guard from Samoa.

“Bingo. I carry the responsibility of asking you about your birthday gift,” she answers sarcastically.

“Nothing. Unless her present consists on getting off my back,” the Quartermaster replies standing in front of a vending machine deciding which cold drink he’ll have with lunch.

“Give me a hand here, will you? She’s been suggesting I get you out for shoe shopping,” she insists.

“Just tell her to get me the usual.”

“Gift order from ThinkGeek it is. Hey, are you ok?”

“I’m fine,” he says popping the energy drink can open. Q takes seat surrounded by people drinking coffee, chatting and just chilling. A bunch of middle aged men are laughing their asses out with _Stand Up for the Week_ on the TV at the back.

“Right. Come on, spit it out.”

“I’m fine, ok? I’m at work, Sarah.”

“Woah, there!” she exclaims with an exaggerated tone of voice, “You’re really cranky this morning. What happened?”

“Nothing. I’m just busy.”

“You never get this snappy when I call you at work. And hey, that happens once a month, if ever.” Since their infancy, his sister always found the way to penetrate the thousand layers of apparent indifference Q pulls around himself for protection. And that happens when something important is occurring.

“I said I'm fine.” He’s starting to get annoyed. The more the she gets right on the spot about his moods, the worse it gets. But his sibling’s learnt long ago to ride the waves of his mood swings with mastery.

“You didn’t sleep at all. I can tell.”

“No, I haven’t. Extra shifts, big mission.”

“You know you’re giving mum the right to ask me about your unhealthy habits, right?”

“She can think whatever she wants. It’s not my problem.” Q's voice had elevated as high as his heart-rate and his words are demanding and exasperated.

“Ok,” she pauses. “Now you’re seriously going to tell me what’s going on or I’m not talking to you in six months.” The threat is meant more as self punishment for her than a problem for him, but he loves her and it doesn’t feel right.

“It’s just...” Q struggles with the selection of the right words to explain something without giving himself up. “Work related, really.”

“Oh, my god.”

“What?”

“Oh. My. God. It’s a guy, right?”

“No! No, no, no. It’s just-” The young man puts his drink down on the floor coffee table opposite him.

“I knew it!” she beams. “He’s from work? Are you dating already? You’re back with Hugh? Please tell me it’s not him.”

“No, it’s not him. I mean, there’s no one. You’re wrong.” The more he talks, the worse it’ll get. He can be quite reserved and lie to others to hide his personal issues but it won’t work with Sarah. Never did, never will.

“I came from the same womb, darling. You always get distracted and secretive when there’s someone around. So I’m assuming you haven’t told him yet. Did I get it right?”

Damn her and her magic wizard powers to read him. His enamoured stages usually follow the same twisted pattern: irritation, excessive smiling and finally, over talkative about his significant other. And he’s confident to show this only with his sister and her boyfriend, Michael, if he’s around and catches a glimpse of it. Sarah’s his real and only true confidant. A relationship he has never been able to form with their mother. She’s always been too overprotective with him, being the only male left in the family and the youngest. She knows about Hugh and the breakup but never got a word about the true impact in his life.

“This is just not the moment. I’m at work, please?” he begs. He can deal with his sister’s persistence at any given moment but not at work. Especially if he dares mention Bond’s name followed with phrases like “it’s just a stupid crush”, “he means nothing”, “it will pass”, or similar for the matter.

“Right. I’ll get you later,” she accepts, defeated. And that’s the end of the conversation.

He remains there for a little longer, staring at the gray porcelain stone tiles of the floor.

He knows when he’s tired and he closes around himself from discussing something stirring inside with another human being. And this is one of those episodes. The tone in his sister’s voice with her blunt questions regarding Bond was full of joy and curiousness and the idea of this becoming more than just a crush frightened him. Because that means he’ll get stupid hopes about it being something more and he’ll collide against the harsh reality of rejection. A useless bag of hope full nothing else than bogus speculation.

His phone buzzes again. He knew his sister wouldn’t let it pass.

But it’s a text message from the phone for work and he doesn’t recognize the number. Attached, there’s a photo of a round table and some others around. It looks like some expensive coffee shop. The centre of the picture focuses on a plate with delicious looking buttered scones and a cup of smoking tea with its used teabag next to it. It reads _Good Morning Tea – Premium Assam,_ and a single line of text.

_“Good blend. Quartermaster in pajamas not included.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some references about real scenarios/institutions/etc:
> 
> * 45-51 Mitre Road, Southwark: use Google maps to find the location and use the Street View option to check the front of Q's house ;)  
> * Burj Al-Khalifa: is a skyscraper in Dubai, United Arab Emirates, and is the tallest man-made structure in the world, at 829.8 m (2,722 ft).  
> *EUSC: European Union Satellite Centre. Is an agency of the European Union's (EU) Council of Ministers which gathers information through satellite images.  
> * HSBC Bank, Al Murooj Rotana, Dusit Dubai: nearby buildings and hotels surrounding the Burj Al-Khalifa.  
> * Stand Up for the Week: is a British television comedy series shown on Channel 4, featuring stand-up comedy performances reflecting topical events.


	5. Chapter 5

“Target’s on the move.”

Q stands up and presses the communicator on his desk, keeping his hands close to the keyboard. From the list of cameras, one of his men at Q Branch places a video frame at the center of the screen, showing Maalouf walking down the hotel corridor and heading towards the restaurant. The windows of the dining area show miles of plain desert and lower towers than the Burj Al-Khalifa.

“Can you see me?”

“Yes.” Q zooms in on Bond’s figure resting his shoulder against one of the polished bourgeoisie colored walls. Phone in hand, he keeps his free hand in one pocket, waiting for further instructions.

“Now, remove the battery cover and slide the memory card off. You’ll see a tiny orange button,” the Quartermaster says, watching as the agent takes a moment to do as he is told. He puts the phone auricular back against his ear and he continues, “Push it and that should open the compartment with the earpiece. When you get it, squeeze the silicone ring and then turn off the phone. Put the earpiece on and we’ll continue with the connection there.”

Bond follows a random woman with his eyes just to deflect anyone’s attention in case he’s being watched. He concentrates on his target through his peripheral vision; the target isn't moving. In fact, he's simply ordering something from the waiter. Double oh seven moves his fingers against the soft plastic of the earpiece. After placing it into his ear, he walks to the bar.

“Beetroot Martini. Thanks.”

“I can hear you. Touch your nose if you can hear me,” Q requests.

And the blond haired man does as demanded.

At his back, M is closely following the movements of both agent and mark on the screens from three different angles provided by the security cameras. Tanner’s sitting at one of the desks not so far away from him, calculating the different choices for quick exits from the lounge.

A minute later a large man in brown leather jacket approaches Maalouf and whispers something in his ear.

Bond leaves the glass on top of the bar and looks down, pretending to read text messages on his mobile. “Who’s that?”

“I’m on it,” answered Q, typing as fast as he can, retrieving as much information as possible from the tiny fragment of face of the new man he caught from the camera. He is on the criminal data base after all. A fellow mate from the South African guerrilla.

“So… name’s Tau Azzie. He was in the Tuareg Rebellion in 2008, committed attacks against civilians in Tahoua. Hm. Deeply interested in uranium. Nothing else of importance,” Q reads, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

“Has he been in London lately?” M inquires, clasping his fingers on the back of his chair.

“Not for year,” a brunette at the back of the room replies.

Q’s thumb taps the white surface of his the table. His eyes dart from the window where Bond’s waiting and the one where the man is sitting. He’s looking for a sudden change, movement, anything. The place is really quiet and the only sounds that can be heard are keyboards typing and clicks here and there.

Maalouf pays his bill. He passes by the odd red and white mural on the wall and leaves the room. Bond takes a moment and follows him at safe distance. At headquarters, they switch cameras following their path as they walk down towards the elevators. He waits for a moment until the doors are open and the target enters the metal box. Then he runs to catch the other in order to follow.

“He’s going up,” the Quartermaster informs.

“Where?”

“Not done yet…” Inside, the elevator looks like a friggin’ dance club. It’s all dark and the walls are made of a polished black surface. The only illumination comes from dim blue LED lights that cover the walls in different square patterns and the three flat screens embed at different levels. In the gloom, the numbers of the floors are readable. One hundred and thirty two, thirty three, thirty four… and finally. Thirty five.

“He’s going for the corporative suites. One thirty five.”

Normally, he’d joke and lighten the conversation with witty comments but his sense of humor is drained out of him now. All because everything concerning the double oh agent feels out of place. It’s this precise moment when realization strikes him with the inevitable truth that his relationship is affecting his job on a professional level: he can’t be someone with him and something else with the rest of the world. He feels that everything he’ll say from now on will too obvious: he’s forcing him out of his comfort zone; it’s blocking the dynamism of their interactions.

The neon blue brilliance of the lights reflects on Bond’s eyes as he waits until he reaches his destination. He steps out. The corridor is strangely empty.

“Walk straight ahead, then turn to your right. He…” The lens of the camera shifts to show the door through which Maalouf passes. “He entered the fourth room on your left,” Q instructs.

The Quartermaster activates the camera inside said place and notices the mark standing still, facing the door. What is he doing?

Unexpectedly, he turns and looks straight into the camera. Various levels of concern appeared on all the faces of the MI6 personnel. Q frowns. Maalouf grins and he vanishes. Like a magic trick, into thin air. The room is as empty as it was before Maalouf had entered it. Q feels a creeping apprehension as he sees 007 slowly cracking the door open.

“The camera. They interfered the security camera network.”

“Maalouf’s a decoy. Get out of there, Bond!”

But it’s too late. There are sounds of struggle and slamming and the only thing Q can think of is getting that goddamned camera working again for him. They’ve been set up and they’ve been clever enough to lead them like mice to a trap. This is no longer a man’s job but a team’s making. They put a fake recording of that room to mask the action and to delay the building’s security response and get MI6 off their backs to do whatever they pleased at the vault with Disc 4.

_The vault._

“Back up team, move!” orders Tanner with a phone in his hand and the camera on the right end shows three men in gray suits running towards one of the elevators, still on level one hundred and twenty three, back down at the restaurant level. But once inside, the elevator stops in between one twenty nine and thirty and all the lights are out, leaving the emergency ones and things are not getting pretty.

“Can’t make it move again.” Charles, second in command after Q, lets out a groan.

“Someone’s going to the vault,” a girl with a headset informs from behind.

The man in the leather jacket from the restaurant has passed the security checks with no problem and is placing something against the electronic key lock. He sticks a plastic square to the wall while holding a black box roughly the size of a cell phone. He presses a hand against the digital scanner on the wall and turns his attention back to the small keyboard in his hands.   

“We need Bond.” And that remark from M sounds almost menacing as Q is frantically trying to tear down the invader to gain control of the cameras. His pupils are dilated and his neck is rigid, typing as fast as he can.

A gunshot. And silence.

Everybody’s attention snaps to the screens in the search of a sign. Fingers freeze in midair above the keyboards and phones are still and when M speaks, his voice is unnaturally loud in the silence.

“Bond. _Bond_?”

Panting, a short haired blond head emerges from the door leading to the corridor. Q feels like the air is back in his lungs. Murmurs can be heard again in the room and the effort to free the backup team is resumed still unsuccessfully.

“Where to?” Bond asks, resting a palm against the frame.

“Level one fifty-two,” answers the Quartermaster. These people, whoever they are, could try the elevator trick again. He can’t risk that possibility. Not when Bond’s life is suddenly more important to him than the mission itself. His mind’s working fast thinking of a way to prevent this but he’s relieved when the doors open and the agent’s finally out.

Gun in hand, Bond passes the arch of the vast room and spots the man hunched against the lock of the vault. The robber is aware of Bond’s presence and puts a pair of plastic goggles hanging from his neck over his eyes. He throws a daring glance and waits.

There’s a loud explosion and suddenly the air is covered in green dust. The repulsive particles are clouding his vision and he desperately aims for a wall. He needs to catch the other man before he gets the disc or everything will be lost. Bond tries to clean up his vision scrubbing his eyes with a hand.

“Don’t!” shouts the Quartermaster with agitation. He suspects the green dust isn’t pepper spray but it seems damned close, “Bond, don’t remove the contact lenses! You’re protected!”

Double oh seven absolutely forgot about the bulletproof protection in his eyes. They felt so comfortable that he had forgotten about having pieces of thin rubber stuck to his corneas. He stumbles a bit, blinking furiously as he tries to focus on the target. He charges forward, grabbing the man from behind. His opponent grasps Bond’s arms at the front and arches. He slams his head back into Bond's nose. Gritting his teeth, the agent lets go and forces himself back to his feet. He swings his right fist into the other man’s stomach but there’s little to no reaction from him, because the man in leather jacket is taller and slightly stronger. The green particles still linger in the air and Bond, more aware of the contact lenses, has to blink several times to wipe away the discomfort.

M follows the fight with apparent calm. Q's gripping the edges of the table so hard the veins in his hands are reminiscent of tree roots in the way they contrast against the translucence of his white skin. There’s a knot at his throat and his jaw is tense.

It's all hand-to-hand combat now. Bond manages to topple the man with a kick in the backs of the knees. The man groans as he slumps to the floor. The agent immediately disables him by straddling him and punches him twice in the face. The man in leather jacket arches and twists his torso trying to get him off but the agent tightens his grip on the body below with his thighs. After the fifth punch Bond connects to the other man’s nose, who’s starting to give up.

His knuckles hit the man's face again and there’s blood staining the floor now. The question about the location of the other discs is repeated several times but to no avail. Back at MI6 headquarters, the scene is very grim. The MI6 personnel notice that a large group of policemen have formed a circle around Bond and the mark.

“It’s ok now. I’m here to--”

Double oh seven never finished the phrase. There was a flash of a stun gun, a sudden pain in his chest, and the world went black.

…

Diplomatic relationships are like new dresses for a prostitute.

A dress for a whore is a beautiful shiny cover to trick the client that she’ll be be easy and submissive to handle but in the end it will be just power play. Because keeping the balance between nations is just that: huge, scary monsters giving each other a fraternal hug right after sharpening their claws to gut each other. If you like how I lie, you’ll lie with me if you want to keep peace. And if we’re pretty good liars together, we’ll even get paid for it.  And that’s how England’s been managing its relationships with the rest of the world about their secret agents. So it was no surprise when Bond broke free ten minutes after they imprisoned him in Dubai. Normally, it’d cost them a good bunch of favors to repay, but with the current mission at stake, the limits aren’t as tight as they once were. And despite the constant bitching about how much money the man is costing for Her Majesty, they still go for it. Because as much as they want to deny it, he’s worth it.

The man who had nearly succeeded at the vault was interrogated. It took a while but he managed to confess that Disc One and Two never left London but he didn’t know the exact location. That he's been paid by a man he never met in person. He was paid by a simple deposit into his bank account. Surprise, surprise, it is the same contractor who paid Maalouf.

The three other men who took that flight from London to Dubai were questioned about the whereabouts of the two missing discs. They said they were given specific instructions about this job. The discs in London were to be placed in two different vaults at the Lloyds Bank Headquarters located at Gresham Street. Fake IDs, account numbers and details were provided to complete the action and that was it. End of story. Now Bond’s back and he, along with the rest of the secret agencies have to turn London upside down to get a sniff of where the pieces are.

It’s been three days since the double oh agent returned and Q hasn’t seen him yet.

It was easier to run into the same person three or four times a day when MI6 had briefly headquartered in Churchill's bunker. But back in Vauxhall, it was common to not know everyone or even see everyone. But Q branch is on level three. And M’s office is on five.

Since that message with the photo of the coffee shop in Dubai, the tea bag and the cryptic line of text, no further personal contact was made with Bond.

Q’s been sleeping no more than two hours a day and he’s deeply immersed with this case. He’s content with slaving himself like this because it's what makes him come to terms with the existence of every fiber in his body. He’s sitting hour after hour at his desk considering every piece of information, every link from subject A to subject B to subject C in order to find the location of the discs. All the portions of his brain work like a machine and it feels good. Until M calls him into his office.

“It’s about your time schedule,” M starts. The dark walls of his office surround them and suddenly the young Quartermaster feels like a primary school boy being lectured.

“Yes, well. I will stay all night sir. It’s not a problem to me,” he says. Mallory interrupts him with a dismissing wave.

“That’s not what I meant.” The man in blue suit and tie pauses. His prominent brows slightly covering top of his deep eyes frown. “I believe we started off on the wrong foot at the beginning of my administration.”

Q arches against the back of the chair in a subtle manner and waits.

“When I referred your work with the Silva case back then, it wasn’t mean to be taken as an objection of your performance but quite the opposite,” he explains.

“I appreciate that very much, sir,” the younger man managed to say, unsure of where this conversation is going.

“I believe you misunderstood the message. The quantity of incoming reports from your department to my office has considerably increased these past days,” he states brushing his fingertips over the many emails printed on top of the lustrous mahogany desk. 

Q licks his lips nervously and nods, “I suppose we’re not being specific on the reports and I’m aware of the number of informs, sir. I’ve tried my best to not fall into redundancy but my intention is to keep you up to date on our progress…”

“No, Q…”

“And I assure you I’ll do my best effort not to bother you with inefficient papers. I, for one-“

“Q, stop.”

And he does as he’s told.

Mallory strokes the bridge of his nose with index and thumb and closes his eyes for a second. “You must know this is the most professional display of efficiency I’ve witnessed in the short time since I’m in charge here. And, to put it bluntly, I think you’re pushing yourself too much for the misunderstanding of that initial exchange we had. I’m not questioning your talents. I’m very pleased with them.”

Hearing a felicitation such as this tells Q that yes, he’s been performing at least decently according to his capabilities. But pushing himself is an addictive drug.

“Then I must respectfully say I fail to see the reason of this meeting, sir.”

“Yesterday you’ve worked sixteen hours. I can’t allow that,” M says with a clear expression of concern.

“I don’t mind at all, sir. I’m more than glad to offer my services after hours.”

“Well, I’m not allowing it. As much as we need you here.”

“But you’ve just implied my presence is required, sir.”

“And I’m still not going to allow this self imposed routine. You’re leaving at five pm today and it’s final.”

A bundle of frustration and irritation floods his insides. He can still work from home using a cover to not register his presence in the database. But perhaps M had a point. Sooner or later his mind was going to start throwing five-oh-three error messages and he's going to need more days to recover. A luxury he won’t allow himself to have.

“I understand,” he simply answers.

“Good. That is all.”

The difference between this M and his predecessor is evident but not striking. For a position like this, you need to keep an iron fist on the task because after all, you are wearing a pair of very heavy shoes. He’s pretty certain he’d never have that kind of conversation with the deceased female M. Q was sure it was because when the woman was in charge, he was just a pup among a horde of wolves. Perhaps Mallory’s still soft on them to gain their confidence and he’ll start pushing harder later, but something about him didn’t look he’d be like that.

…

The fluorescent lights of Vauxhall Station curve against walls of the tube. Q’s sitting on the bench, staring at a solitary eye from the remains of an old movie, plastered against the wall. The orange letters on the electronic panel contrast with the gray and white of the walls and floor. Everything’s silent.

He gets on the train and it’s packed, but he doesn’t mind.

…

The Quartermaster drops the keys near the crystal ashtray he never used and hangs his satchel on the perch on the wall. He turns the lights on and kicks his shoes off as he starts loosening his tie. He showers to cleanse himself from the disgusting smell of cigarettes and junk food. He doesn’t notice how tired he is until after the shower, when his muscles start relaxing to the point of drowsiness.

And he lays on the living room’s couch with his eyes closed when he receives a text message. He kind of expects it to be from work but he frowns when he reads the message.

_“We agreed on you picking the place again.”_

_Like hell we did_ , he thinks, because it sounds more like a command than a joint plan. The thing is he didn’t save Bond’s number. But it didn’t require major usage of gray matter to guess the identity of the sender. He’s too tired to think of a clever elusive answer right now. And he’ll regret it later whether he goes or not, anyways.

_“The Tate. Because there’s more than bloody big ships to see.”_

_…_

They slowly walk through the clustered galleries of the Tate Britain with its dark green marble and wooden floors. Queens, kings, children, prostitutes, widows, men, women framed in gold and arabesques.

They stop at some particular paintings that catch double oh seven’s attention and that pleases Q. He likes to share something like this with him and it gives him the chance to take his time to watch him as well. Bond narrows his eyes and bends forward concentrating on the textures and the irregular strokes of the artist’s brush. He looks enthralled when Q slides a comment or interpretation from the artist’s point of view of the paintings on display. The agent lingers a little more than the rest at Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones’s _“King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid.”_

Its bold, dark colors are rich. The scene shows the African king Cophetua sitting on the stairs below the central figure, the beggar woman.

“He’s wearing his armor, helmet and sword. That represents his strong will and determination despite his higher cast to marry a simple beggar and make her his queen, after treating other rich women with disdain,” Q explains. “She’s facing the painting in a defying manner because she’s simple and straight. And he loves the way she is.”

“She got a king under her paw,” Bond takes a moment to break eye contact from the painting and raises both eyebrows at the young man, “Cheap golddigger.”

“Ouch,” Q says with a little smile on his lips. “She’s in love with him, too. At least there’s no evidence to the contrary.” Bond certainly knows better about the golddiger type of women, working out in the field.

The Scot looks back at the painting and intently watches the clear expression of the woman in the canvas.

“The characters above represent society, and the shock of a love that transcends all reason.”

Never leaving his gaze to the picture, Bond leans down to sit on the bench opposite the work of art. Q imitates the gesture and they stare at it in silence for a couple of seconds.

“Must have been quite a deal in 1884,” says Bond, finally.

“Oh, yes. The exposure of feelings without justification or regret.”

His own words pierce the core of his repressed thoughts about surrounding their situation. He’s terrified of something that’s not even real and there’s some compunction in his heart about this. Building castles in the air about nothing. It’s been just a kiss, a rapture of the moment. He’s afraid to ask him about that kiss because he’s the only one making a big fuss of it.

“Do you feel like that sometimes?”

Q rests his palms on his thighs, stroking the fabric of his dark denim jeans with his fingers, “Like what?”

“Expose yourself like that, with no regrets,” Bond answers lowering his voice, as if it was a dark secret surrounded by strangers.    

“Don’t we all?”

Bond grins. “Depends on the receiving end.”

And they both chuckle because there’s no clever way to answer to that. His phone rings again and it’s a text message from Sarah. She’s asking him how’s he doing and he simply answers _I’m fine, can’t talk now_. She doesn’t bother again and Q wonders if she suspects he’s with company right now.

“Problem?”

“Nah. Just family.”

“Oh.”

“My sister,” he answers. This is the first time he’s mentioned his family with someone from work. He’s careful to trace a line between work and his private life because it’s more comfortable that way to separate people into categories.

“She wears glasses, too?”

Q laughs. “No. I’m afraid she’s a simple mortal.” He could ask about Bond’s family and pretend he didn’t read his profile at MI6, but the man’s not stupid. He certainly knows Q has knowledge about his past.

“Are you close?” says Bond. The question sufficiently encourages the Quartermaster to permit himself open a bit more.

“Quite. She’s in Warrington Crescent, big house, car, boyfriend and all.”

“Jealous?”

“Not in the slightest. I’m quite content with the way I live. And you?” If he wanted to step there, he could play the game too.

“Just cousins.”

He wasn’t surprised at this. He was certain Bond was going to avoid the topic. Q could clarify his question again, but pushing him isn’t going to help the conversation if he wants to keep it light and casual. If the agent’s still calling him for a drink or chat, it means he’s at least comfortable having him around. There’s something more than “good morning” or “bye” happening at an interpersonal level and yes, he could get used to this. None have mentioned the kiss again but it doesn’t bother him, as long this keeps going uncomplicated and informal.  

The following day, it’s Bond’s choice and they go to The Red Lion again. Going back to that pub is something Q could bear. He's starting to suspect Bond is getting attached to the place since he's only willing to share it with Q. Like building a sanctuary. A place where they can trespass the doors and move at ease inside, and the rest of the world can be kept far away. Private and public, close and distant. And the conversation never falls into questioning too much about each other’s opinions about what’s in game for the future, plans or wishes.

Until one night Bond drags him into the nightly darkness of the narrow alley of Craig’s Court.

Their breathing pace quickens in no time and the heat of the older man’s body makes it up for the freezing cold of November. He presses Q’s body against the black wall and the Quartermaster allows it. His eyes travel from Bond’s eyes to his mouth and up again. In a painfully slow motion, the secret agent claims his lips with the soft pressure of a tentative kiss. He slowly pulls back, their noses still brushing, and he waits. Like asking for permission. When he finds no objection, Bond goes for a second one prying Q’s lips open, exploring. There’s the taste of beer and the gentle stroking of his tongue devours the young man’s body with sudden need.

The kiss rapidly escalates in urgency from both men and Q’s hand starts travelling up Bond’s chest, resting his icy palm against the other man’s neck. Bond’s hand tightens its grip on Q’s hips while the other circles his shoulders, pressing their bodies closer and then they are just eating each other in a messy, wet kiss. There’s a low growl from double oh seven as Q breaks the kiss, panting.

“We should get going.”

“Sounds like a perfect plan,” Bond replies leaving a gentle kiss just below Q’s ear.

“I have an early meeting with M tomorrow. And… work… to do,” he states closing his eyes, enjoying the other man’s touch.

There's an abrupt change in Bond’s contact at this. Offended, probably, he lets go of him and slides his hands into the pockets of his large coat, leaving Q’s frame against the brick wall. The Quartermaster knew right there and then that he screwed the moment, because all Bond says is, “Fine. The car is on the next block over.”

The ride back to his apartment is painfully silent. Bond stares at the wheel once he stops at the front door and refuses to meet his eyes. Q forfeits his doubts and his hand comes to rest against the tightened grip of one of Bond’s hands on the wheel.

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some references about real scenarios/institutions/etc:
> 
> * Tuareg rebellion: was an insurgency that began in February 2007 amongst elements of the Tuareg people living in the Sahara desert regions of northern Mali and Niger.  
> * Burj Al-Khalifa's elevator: sounds ridiculous to point it out, but the description is based on the pictures I've seen of it and it's freakin' awesome. Check it out: http://burj-khalifa.eu/construction-technology/at-the-top  
> * Burj Al-Khalifa's levels: all the precise locations of levels are taken from the original planning of the building (except the fictitious vault). You can check it out at the Wikipedia article here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Burj_Khalifa  
> * Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones’s “King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid:" This painting is actually on display at the Tate Britain. You can see the Wikipedia article about it here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_King_and_the_Beggar-maid  
> * Warrington Crescent: it's a beautiful residential area in London. I picked this place because it's not THAT far from Q's house and it matches my vision of Sarah's taste and lifestyle.  
> * Craig's Court: I SWEAR TO GOD I didn't mean a real pun with this location for Bond and Q to make out. It's your typical London dark alley, just a few blocks away from The Red Lion.


	6. Chapter 6

 

“Aahh! Oh God…”

Q wonders how much his arse would be kicked if he tried to punch Bond in the face for brushing his nape with a cold iced tea can. The man is being impossible today. Masked with that attitude of confidence he regularly displays for the common eye, he's been using every single opportunity to bother, annoy and prank him until the point of exhaustion. He behaves like a little brat craving for attention. No wonder he’s an only child. But Q’s vengeful thoughts vanish when he receives an impossibly charming grin in return.

“Sensitive creature. Here,” Bond says, offering the can to his Quartermaster. The cold beverage is a bit of relief from the intense heat inside Headquarters. Overheating is a common problem with offices to counteract the low temperature outside from winter.

“I shed my dragon skin this morning. Sorry?” the young man states with a smile as he grabs the can.

“Did you keep it? I foresee ultra light bulletproof vests in a near future,” the agent suggests tilting his head.

Q stops the typing on his keyboard and bites a corner of his lips, considering this. “Not a bad idea. Minus the usage of my skin.”

The Quartermaster takes a sip from his tea and smiles to himself. He likes these conversations with Bond; they're filled with fresh informality. Bond seems to have brushed off the resistance of the young man last night and Q appreciates the gesture of understanding from the agent. He’s aware that he’s been a cocktease, but he couldn’t stop himself from preventing his advances. Something hadn't felt right in spite of the burning longing of the moment.

And as much as he enjoys Bond’s attention, he feels a pang of fright striking inside. A memory of a morning when Hugh went to the café where they met, carrying a paper bag full of _pain au chocolat_ , Q’s favorite. How he told him that he fell in love with him at first sight. How much Q laughed at this. The extents of Hugh’s indefatigable chase to win him over, make him smile, laugh. The night Q was feeling so stressed about work and Hugh called in sick at work just to walk around with him and talk. That night, when the young Quartermaster felt special enough for someone to make a sacrifice for him, just to make him feel better. It was the same night, yes, when they made love for the first time at Q’s apartment. And when someone wants to gain your attention like this, it’s impossible not to unconsciously make comparisons. Sick maybe, but unavoidable comparisons.

Carrying a folder, Tanner steps in and passes by the desks in Q branch. He stands between both men arranging his papers in order. “There’s something interesting here that may require attention.”

“Anything on the disks?”

“Not exactly. It’s about the stock market. There’s something unusual about the stock behavior. Get on London Exchange, go to worldwide tendencies,” he says addressing the Quartermaster. He clicks on the indices charts and a screen shows the raising tendencies in green and the low in red.

“The historical price value for diamond mining companies has been stable until a couple of days ago. Here.” Tanner explains pointing to the chart with his finger. “Tell me, what can you see there?”

The mining chart expands on the flat screen and there are individual bars for each company: Anglo American plc, Debswana, Harry Winston Diamond Corporation and Glencore among others. All the green arrows are pointing upwards, indicating their constant rising inclination. If there’s something that will never lack investment or interest, it’s gold and diamonds and that’s an indisputable fact. But there’s something peculiar on the graphics that catches Bond’s attention.

“ALROSA.”

Tanner nods holding his folder closer to his chest. “Exactly.”

The index indicator for the Russian diamond company, one of the most important in the globe, shows a peak twenty times higher than the rest of its competitors. A blatant difference like this hints something strange is going on.

“But how could they…?”

“Defense Intelligence presents two theories. Both based on pure speculation but with very plausible scenarios. Meaning ALROSA’s spreading the word about the formula to synthesize diamonds with the information from the stolen discs. Two, they are already experimenting and testing their product with clandestine dealers. The analysis of the Momentum shows a difference of the highest closing price at 15.025 a week ago and 36.110 as of today.” Tanner takes control of Q’s laptop for a moment to open ALROSA’s chart in a separate window. The bars show a regular consistency and an abrupt peak at the end of the table. 

“Impressive.”

“Mad,” adds Bond crossing his arms over his chest. “Someone sold the location of the discs to them.”

“Yes. Probably someone from the inside of the investigation team. There’s no other way for anyone to know the information that is on those discs. There’s also this.” After clicking on ALROSA’s link, a list of investors appears on screen. Tanner scrolls down until he stops at a single name and clicks again.

“Martin Young? Last time I checked it he was Buckingham’s favorite fashion pick.” Bond remarks lifting his tea can to his lips.

“And jewellery. They are investing a disgusting amount of money with it. They must have a  direct deal with the mining company. If they can connect us with ALROSA and their source, we might have a lead on the discs,” Q adds nodding.

“This is where you enter, double oh seven.”

The stock market tables are minimized and a profile with a dark haired woman shows on screen.

Q feels his heart drumming faster and finds himself staring down at the picture on his laptop. He knows where this is going. James Bond and women go hand-in-hand, nobody can rightfully argue about that. It’s in the nature of the job, MI6 personnel would say. He rests his can on the table and turns to look at him. Bond’s looking at the woman with the same expression a as hunter studying his next victim. The Quartermaster over analyzes that look and in his eyes, he believes Bond almost seems like he forgets the rest of the mission and observes the woman as a future trophy.

 _Perhaps that’s what I am,_ Q ponders.

“Ruth Mardling is the current CEO of Martin Young in London. You’re going to be a representative of CIBJO, the World Jewellery Confederation. There will be a release party for their newest collection at Somerset House and you’ve been included in the guests list.” Tanner picks up an envelope from between the pages of his folder and hands it to the agent. “Tomorrow night.”

Double oh seven takes the envelope and twists the piece of paper between his fingers and reads the RSVP legend on the back. That invitation means that, contrary to the course of recent events, he’s not going to spend another night with Q at The Red Lion. He grew so fond of their time together that the mere idea of his absence feels like a knife in the back.

But it’s okay. Q thinks there’s nothing of his attachment with the other man and he feels internally insulted by his own doubts. There’s nothing to be worried about when it’s not like he’s going to suffer sheer disappointment for something that doesn’t involve any level of commitment. Right?  

……

He’s hitting the skip button of the remote control of the telly for the eleventh time in less than thirty seconds. There’s nothing to watch, really. 

Q lays in the bed. In a futile attempt to turn off his brain he thinks of alternatives for the contestant on _Countdown_ on TV. He’s stuck with a word using fourteen letters, four of which are a’s and three p’s. Q mouths _parapiptadenia_ to the TV screen. Fun, fun. 

No matter what he does, in his head, Bond’s still smiling at the picture of the female CEO back at Q Branch.

He checks the time. He must be sweet talking her into getting laid right now. Yes, very professional.

The mental image should have vanished by now, but his look… his look was almost the same he gave him that night at Craig’s Court. He wants those eyes for him alone. That glance to be his only.

 _Fool_.

He’s in no position to demand anything because he stopped whatever was going to happen after the kiss in the alley. In vain he tries to convince himself, over and over again like a mantra, that there’s nothing about it to be taken seriously. But if he was just another fling for Bond, he’d have already dumped him after the first refusal of intimacy. Or the lack of response from his flirting, like what happened that day at the video cam conference. There’s a contrast in his voice when they are talking about trivialities with a beer in hand, and when they step on personal topics and Bond’s voice turns husky, insinuating. Those are the contradictions he can’t fully resolve in his head.

But what if the belief that he's truly important to someone causes him to fall again? A year and half ago he believed in Hugh, trusted and shared things with him like he haven’t done before with any other boyfriend in the past. At first Hugh was prince charming, telling him how immensely lucky he was to be able to be with a man like Q, and how perfect he was for him, despite their different professions and tastes.

Then, subtly, things had begun to change.

The first few months of their relationship were what romantic fantasies are made of. They moved to Q’s apartment and Hugh took him to several luxurious restaurants to try exotic, new dishes and insisted on paying for everything because he wanted to take care of him. He’d spoil him with every limited edition action figure of his favorite games, movies and comics and his only concern in life was to make Q happy.

But then Hugh started working more at the restaurant, and that demanded more of his time. Time that Q started using to meet with friends at their favorite café or at a friend’s house to have LAN party or just fool around. The man started complaining that they didn’t have much time together and that he should stop seeing his friends too often to stay home until his return, so they could share the little time of the day they had together. At first Q thought it was cute, but then it started bothering him. He’s a grown up and he has his right to be with whoever he wanted, whenever he wanted.

One day Q casually talked with Hugh about his sister, Sarah, employed as a secretary of a rather big company, freaking out because she couldn’t get a balance sheet right. He was concerned about her because he knows how responsible she is and how much she stresses over things like this, even if it wasn’t her fault. The talk was left in the past and that was it. But some days later, they were arguing about how Hugh thought on Q being childish playing video games at a friend’s house as if he was a teen.

Things escalated with Q throwing attacks about the clingy obsession he had with him and then, like a devastating weapon, Hugh brought up Sarah’s case. Hugh knew her boss because he was a regular client at the restaurant and he was good friends with a friend of said man. Knowing that he could never blackmail Q about his illegal hacking activities, he used his sister to coerce him into cutting ties with his friends and spend more time with him. If Q didn’t do what he wanted, he’ll tell her boss that Sarah was stealing from them, causing the sheet balance’s error. He also told him that he even had a very important friend in the company that knew about this so if he dared to denounce him to the police about his threat, that other man would go ahead and ruin his sister’s reputation. 

Hugh was clean and Q couldn’t find anything to use against him. He was scared about ruining his sister’s life so he complied with whatever the man wanted. He stopped seeing his online friends at the café because Hugh thought he’d meet with a secret boyfriend there. He made up excuses to not go to his sister’s house for dinner. Q had to be awake all night long until he came back so they could go to bed together. And if that wasn’t enough, Hugh talked shit about his friends and how they use him when he helps them hacking a site.

He was a fucking prisoner. And even if you possess a fairly high self-esteem, being someone else’s slave can crush your spirit little by little. No matter how strong you think you are, how much you hate the other person. When there’s someone you love like dear life in the middle, you don’t think twice about protecting that one. Even if that means risking your own sanity.

Still, one glorious day, luck returned to him from a long slumber. It was the day he picked up Hugh’s phone the cellphone and he saw the picture of him kissing another man. He said nothing and waited until the Hugh left to work. He decided right then and there he was not going to allow himself be crushed any more. He created a set up linking Hugh with a fake connection with the Albanian Mafia in Soho. He made three copies in different external drives hidden in the house and one ready to send to Scotland Yard via e-mail.

He patiently waited all day long for him to return back home.

When he finally confronted him about the cellphone, Hugh brought up the threat on Sarah again and Q presented him the counterattack of the Albanian connection. Hugh backed up and started packing things up while telling him how pitiful and useless Q was, and that he was fooled about believing he could be the man of his life. Almost done with gathering his things, and due to the lack of response from the Quartermaster, he trashed most of Q’s toys, sculptures and electronics on the shelves of his apartment, yet he didn’t lay a finger on him. He yelled that Q will never be happy in his life because he was selfish piece of trash and that nobody would ever love a man who can’t think of the necessities of others. Hugh finally left. And that was the last thing he knew about him. Luckily, Sarah never had a single problem with the company. But Q kept the copies stored.

Just in case.

The impact of the use and abuse from that man was so strong that it took him a couple of months until he could return to normally relate with his friends, family and of course, work. Because that relationship wrecked his health and he suffered anxiety episodes, interfering with his proper functioning at the IT Security company he was working at the moment.

The doorbell rings and it shakes Q out of his thoughts. He looks at the clock again. It’s past two am. Perhaps his neighbor next door is drunk again?

Dressed in a tuxedo, Bond stands at his door, his breathing uneven. There’s something disturbing in his eyes Q cannot read. The young man starts wondering about how he got his address but he mentally whacks himself when he realizes that what he does for living. The fact that he’s at his door at two am is a worrisome alert. Perhaps the whole Silva-M matter returned to haunt him. 

“Bond…?”

Without a word, Bond grabs Q's jaw with a strong hand and presses his lips against his own.

The Quartermaster closes his eyes by instinct and stumbles backwards. Bond kicks the door slamming it closed behind his back. The kiss is urgent, fierce. There’s a difference in the aggression from the previous ones and Q can’t feel his legs or control his body anymore. His muscles turn into jelly and a wave of repressed wanting and need for touch possesses him, and he allows himself melt in the other man’s embrace. His arms come to rest around Bond’s neck and double oh seven’s hands tighten their grip on his hips, pulling him closer until the space between is non-existent.

His mouth is released from the delicious torture of the agent’s mouth and he finds himself grasping for air. He feels Bond’s teeth nipping at his throat followed by the licking of his warm tongue, apologizing for the roughness of the previous action. Q’s eyes close and he moans when one of Bond’s hands travel under his loose t-shirt and gently strokes the sensitive skin of his chest. The Quartermaster slides his hand under the collar of the other man’s black jacket pushing it off Bond’s shoulders, and the piece of fabric falls on the floor. Q curls his fingers around the agent’s nape delighted with his skin.

He tries to balance himself when the older man starts guiding him towards the wall, pressing his frame against it. Q’s half hard when Bond’s hand ventures down past the waistband of his thin sweatpants and cups him. Everything feels surreal. Double oh seven is in his living-room pushing the right buttons as if he had a premeditated knowledge of the responses of his body.

 _Stop_.

He attacks his mouth again. The man sucks Q’s lower lip between his teeth and licks his way into his mouth.

_Stop it._

Bond grabs one of Q’s hands and pins it above his head against the wall.

_He’s just using you._

Q breaks the kiss forcefully and snaps his eyes open. He’s back into reality and a pair of azure irises stare at him with lust and desperation. He squirms and tries to release himself from the other man’s body but Bond seems to misread the action and spreads his legs apart with an intruding thigh.

“Let go,” the Quartermaster says lamely pushing him away, but Bond remains in place, blocking him from any movement.

Double oh seven lifts a finger to brush the corner of Q’s mouth, as if his brain is unable to register the command.

“I said, let me go,” Q repeats finally releasing himself with a forceful push.

“What now?” Bond asks with a groan, a mix of anger and frustration. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want this.”

“Bollocks.” The statement is not meant to be an insult but an affirmation of the stupidity of Q’s reply. Bond certainly did not imagine the moaning and bucking of the Quartermaster’s groin against his hand.

“I don’t want you.”

_Liar._

“Your body seems to have a disagreement with your mouth.” And the agent is partly right. Only partly, because the mixed sensation of fear and lust are playing tricks with his body.

“I don’t want… I’m not here to entertain you, Bond. I’m not disposable.”

“But you think I am.”

Despite the internal turmoil, Q could see his point of view. The teasing and flirting wasn’t the product of only one actor in the play. He admits he cheated on himself wanting who knows what from this game and he gave Bond both green and red signals of his unclear intentions.  But using Bond? It doesn’t make any sense. 

“How… no,” he pauses and shakes his head. “If you want to continue your sex train after getting it on with that CEO at the party, go find someone else. I’m sure there will be multiple options out there.” The Quartermaster pictures the face of the woman in his mind. Bond flirting with her. Whispering against her ear like he did with Moneypenny. Kissing her like he did with him back then.

“I didn’t sleep with her.”

_Not tonight, but you will._

“I don’t care. I just… Why are you here?”

“Because I’m done for the day and I wanted to see you.” Bond’s answer is straight and simple and it feels nice. It does. Except for the fact that he’s been with a woman an hour ago. And the idea of being touched immediately when his hands are still warm from another body is humiliating. “I’m not intending to ‘entertain’ myself with you.”

“Then again, why are you here?”

“To be with you. You should have figured I’m not asking you out because I have a lot of spare time to waste.”

Q rests a hand on the wall behind giving him a tired look. “Let me ask you something. What exactly do you want from me?”

“You.”

“That’s not a sufficient answer. Try again.”

The agent’s eyes silently stare at the hazel blue inquiring ones before him. Q’s not sure what he wants to hear anymore. He wants the Quartermaster or the man? The one who opened up with him or he wants to have a laugh with the challenge of tearing him apart? There are so many alternatives to pick and it doesn’t really matters what he answers right now. It will all sound like disappointment for the younger man because every thought he harbors is dreadfully mortifying. 

“I want this. I want you.”

“There’s no ‘this.’ Not from my end. I don’t want to be with anyone who thinks of me like a piece of meat to screw with.” The tone in Q’s voice is filled with aggravation and he makes an effort to try to control his temper. He _won’t_ be seen in that state. Not by Bond, not by anyone. Ever.

“And who told you what I think about you?”

He’s assuming things but who cares. He’s pushing him away and so what. Bond’s a certified playboy with a legendary scoring record in every known corner of the world and it’d be illogical to think Q’s something else. The mix of voices and disordered facts are making his head spin in the chaotic waterfall of assumptions.

“You fuck with strangers around the globe, Christ.” There, he said it.

“It's part of the trade. To win the target's absolute trust.”

Q is stricken with the harsh reply and a flood of anger suffocates him. “And you'll still do it, even if we decide to be together.”

 _Together?_ What ‘together’? Since when did it start being something else than a beer and random making out? Or a stolen foolish kiss? What the hell is he thinking about?

“If it's required, yes.”

The answer slaps Q with such force that he feels his knees grow weaker by the minute. But he’s unconsciously been waiting to hear this and the sounds of those words are the actual proof that no, he wasn’t mistaken. He’ll always be out in the field and Q at headquarters. There’s no way he’ll know if he’s being faithful to their possible relationship or if he’s getting men and women in his bed at the same time. A man has his needs and Bond doesn’t look like someone who’d resist a nice body to tangle himself with. And what if he actually starts feeling _something_ for them after the mission’s over?

“And you think I'll be just fine here waiting for you, while you go around fucking targets? What do you think I… Agh!” Q exclaims, grasping his face with both hands.

“It's just sex. Nothing else.”

 _It sounds simple, doesn’t it?_ There’s even people who do it for living, who are we kidding. It’s the oldest profession in the world. In a way, any secret agent does it for personal profit. You’re being paid to fulfill your task at any cost. It’s part of the deal of pretending being someone you’re not. Part of an elaborated, planned lie.

“And what is this all about, then?”

“You should know.”

“Well, I don't. Enlighten me,” the Quartermaster asks. 

“You don't trust me.”

“You don't trust me either.”

Nothing can be built from that point and even though he’s young, Q knows better. He’s been there once and he got hurt. If he lowers his barriers again, he’ll end up in the same predicament.

Suddenly, the realization of something even more dangerous hit him like a violent shake. If an idiot like Hugh was able grab his balls with blackmail, what could a secret agent from the Secret Intelligence Service of Her Majesty's Government do?

“Guess we have something in common after all.”

“I suppose.”

Q leaves the wall and sits on the couch, resting his elbows on his knees and his head on his hands. He cannot speak another word, his voice is lost. All of this it’s his bloody fault. He should have kept his mouth shut and fucking dealt with it. He should have never gone to the hospital after M’s death. He should have just minded his own fucking business and followed whatever order he was given and nothing else. He stepped on his boundaries with an employee. Any prospect of a relationship with a double oh agent was a laugh from the very start and he should have listened to the voice of reason warning him about the disaster that was about to come. He accepted his job at MI6 as a personal and intellectual challenge, not as a form to dwell into secretive and impossible relationships á la Romeo and Juliet. If only his coworkers knew about their encounters in the night. Or even worse, Bond’s hands all over him. He can’t let all this slip out in the open. 

He feels a weight by his side sinking on the couch. He doesn’t dare to look at him.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” the young man starts hesitantly. “I… Just forget about this.”

There’s a moment of silence and stillness until Bond stands up. Q lifts his gaze towards him but he’s avoiding his eyes.

“I’m not going to pursue this any further.” Bond pauses and leans down to reach the jacket lying on the parquet. “But I want to be able to talk to you in public because it is required.”

“Yes. I… yes,” Q mutters resting his palms on the couch.

“Perfect. Good night.”

He doesn’t reply. Bond’s figure disappears before the door of his apartment closes. Q takes a deep intake of breath and he feels a killing headache incoming. His head’s about to explode.

…

“You’re an idiot.”

Q’s not surprised by his sister’s words. At all.

He explained the whole tale in seven minutes and it’s been over twenty since she started metaphorically punching him in the shins for the way he handled the situation. He got out early from work again, five pm like M requested last time they spoke and he dialed her number without much consideration.

“You didn’t even give him the chance to start anything. What were you thinking?” Sarah’s voice remains calm despite her blunt questions and comments about the event. She wants to wake some sense in her brother but she knows he’ll pull up an iron fortress if she doesn’t handle it with tact.

“That I don’t need this.” Q presses a palm over his eyes to block the light hurting his tired sight. The phone is on hands free mode and he lies on the bed, still wearing the clothes he used at work.

“You don’t want anything because you’re scared shitless.”

“I’m not scared. I’m preventing something not worth the trouble.”

“You’re pushing him off. Jesus, you’re doing it again,” Sarah adds in an exasperated voice. There’s a racket of metallic sounds at the back. She’s probably going to start cooking dinner.

“What?”

“That bloke from the Camden. The uh, artisan.”

“Roger. What of him?” Q asks running his fingers through his messy hair.

“You cut him loose when he made that risotto for you.”

“He was too clingy.”

“You invited him, love. Then there’s this one from the net. The one from the gaming forum, uh... Can’t remember the name.” There’s sound of water pouring over a billycan and a pause from Q’s sister. “Anyways, you dumped him because of a stupid dispute about World of Warcraft. Come on!”

“He joined another guild. That’s treason,” the Quartermaster answers with a chuckle. Because it was funny after all.

“And that’s vital to a relationship. Correct.”

“It is if you’re dealing with me.”

“Stop trying to convince yourself on it, Ely. You’re looking for excuses.”

“Q.”

“Oh, cut it with that! I’m going to call my brother whatever I want!”

Q buried Ely Ainsworth Turner long time ago when he joined MI6 and he considered his birth name no longer belonged to him. He likes the sense of anonymity the single character gives him and it resumes his true identity; a self identity he unconsciously built. The denomination of Q goes beyond his duty as a Quartermaster. It was like a beginning of something new in him, a self realization of sorts. He gave himself the name of Dashiell Foster not only for taxes and legal papers but also to protect his family from dealing with future problems related to the danger that comes from his profession.

“Please.”

“Okay. ‘Q’. God, I hate it. Back on topic now, you can’t avoid happiness forever, little brother. You deserve to have someone to take care of you and… love you.”

“I can take care of myself pretty well. I think I’ve proven it already.”

“This… man,” she carefully says, because she got a warning to not mention his name in their conversation. “He’s sticking with you after all the shit he put up with you. If he wanted a shag, he could have gotten one without you.”

She had a very valid point. He’s cutting his chances with Bond and not admitting to himself that despite everything, he yearns for his presence. He can’t ignore how much he likes the tone of Bond's voice, the way he talks, moves, fights and sorts things out when he puts duty before his own life. He respects him. Admires him. It’s not love, it’s not sex either. It could be friendship and he can live with that.

“He’s nothing but a work mate.”

“Look. You called me. You want to talk about this. If he is nothing you wouldn’t even care telling me about him.”

He wants to vent and get the uneasiness out of his chest. But he’s relieved to know the games are over and that he’ll start a new, different stage of interaction with Bond. He feels a huge weight off his shoulders and proof of that is that he can talk about it with his sister. It doesn’t matter; he can be more relaxed at headquarters from now on, without the pressure of physical boundaries or misunderstandings. It’s convenient for both: Q returns to his world of investigation and Bond goes back to the field without Q’s absurd demands of faithfulness.

“I just felt like talking to you. How’s Mike doing?”

“Fine. Are you going to come over for your birthday?” she inquires.

“Yeah, I have to arrange something at work and I’ll be there. Friday 8 pm, right?”

“Perfect. Listen, I know you want to change the topic, okay? But… just stay safe. And give it another chance.” His sister won’t insist on a matter where she’s not invited anymore. Perhaps it was wise of her to let her brother’s mind rest after what happened. But she had to give him a last word about it.

“Not possible. I’m done, Sarah.”

“Okay. Just… don’t do anything stupid.”

Q can’t agree more with his sister this time. He’s already shown enough stupidity for a lifetime.

…

The dinner at Sarah’s was quiet and familiar. Due to their mother’s insistence, Q allowed her to share the night with them. Katherine Ainsworth Turner is a barrister, making interrogation one of her primary talents and she doesn’t waste a single second to overflow her son with an uncountable number of questions. Q’s father, Joseph, who died when Q was ten, was a barrister too and he had a nice relationship with his son, but he was a workaholic like Q and didn’t have much time to spend with him. Sarah diverts the conversation from time to time knowing her brother is having a hell of a fun time being stripped of his intimacy, but the older woman won’t get a simple ‘no’ for an answer.

“Have you asked for a raise?”

“No, mum. There’s no raise unless you get killed,” the Quartermaster replies, half joking. Both Sarah and Michael laugh softly but his mother frowns and throws an uneasy glance at him.

“Not funny. I’m sure you’re not eating or sleeping well because of your job. Just look at those black circles,” she says turning to face Sarah with a grin of indignation.

“I’m fine,” Q answers taking a bite of his roasted pork not lifting his gaze from his plate.

“Oh, please. I might not see you for half of a year but I know when my son’s unwell.”

“I mean it. I’m fine. And I don’t have to tell you otherwise because you’re expecting a different answer, mother.” The young man pokes the potatoes on his plate as he focuses on being less irritable.

“Horses for courses,” Mike mutters. His girlfriend provides him with a splendid kick to the knee. He shrugs and continues with his dinner.

“Well, then,” Katherine says, neatly folding the napkin on her lap anxiously, “Are you seeing someone?”

“Mother!” Sarah protests, putting her cutlery at both sides of her dish.

“No, I’m not seeing someone. Unless you want me to fill your imagination with lies,” answers Q facing her. He inherited that feral glance when he feels cornered and his mother is well aware about it.

“You should go out more.”

“I work over ten hours a day. I don’t have time for socializing.”

“You should find yourself a girlfriend and-“

“I date men,” he corrects. He knows she didn’t mean to insult him on purpose because he remembers the day she figured out through his sister that he had a boyfriend in college. She took it well, as well as she could. But never gave up the idea of having a heir from the last male left in the family. 

“I know. I’m sorry.” His mother nods and sighs. “But I want to know there’s someone who’s actually taking proper care of you.”

“I’m twenty-three… twenty-four years old. I’m not nine. I’m an adult, for fuck’s sake!”

“You certainly don’t behave like one! You don’t even call to see if your mother’s alive or not. All I know comes from your sister!”

“Oh, get stuffed!”

“Ely!” Sarah’s instantly on her feet to prevent their mother to go after him as soon as Q storms out of the dining-room. Michael’s mouth is wide open with a piece of chewed pork in his trap and a shocked expression. There seems to be a general tacit consensus about Q's sudden outburst and vocabulary to have left everyone stunned; he never addressed his mother in such a way before. Something’s really wrong with him and now his entire family knows.

The Quartermaster is sitting on the sofa in the living room, staring out at the window. He can hear his mother arguing with his sister and phrases like ‘he’s your son, not a client’ or ‘I don’t know who he is anymore.' But he doesn’t care. She as well as the whole pack can think whatever they want now. He sighs heavily, comforted by the solitude of Sarah’s large living-room surrounded by her classical taste in decoration: a hanging chandelier, Persian rug, chimney and large mirror on top. The lights are out and the only ones in the room are those from the cars outside casting shadows on the walls.

These past few days have been too much to digest. The building tension inside was so much that it started to affect his health. His head hurts most of the day and there’s no ibupophren to ease the pain. His stomach is full of knots and his back is made of stone.

He brushes the curtains away and peers outside, wishing there was someone for him waiting at the door. But there’s only emptiness and silence.

He deserves this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some references about real scenarios/institutions/etc: 
> 
> * ALROSA: is a diamond company in Russia. Alrosa is engaged in the exploration, mining, manufacture and sale of diamonds. Founded in 1992.  
> * Anglo American plc, Debswana, Harry Winston Diamond Corporation and Glencore: real mining companies as well. Google them :P  
> * CIBJO, the World Jewellery Confederation: is an international confederation of jewellery, gemstone, horology, and silverware trade organisations. Founded in 1926.  
> * Countdown: is a British game show involving word and number puzzles. Firt aired in 1982.


	7. Chapter 7

_An empty room with a floor made of rough cement and a single lamp with fluorescent tubes hanging from the ceiling. He stands in solitude; no door can be seen. There’s a light in a clear shade of blue, its brilliance descending upon his soft curls. He raises his hand to touch his nose. There’s blood coming out. A drop slides down to taint his cold lips and he licks it. Something’s missing. His eyes move to the floor._

_A pair of broken glasses._

…

Q wakes up breathing hard, grasping at the sheets of the bed. The bedroom is dark and the moonlight leaks through the window, the only witness of his shaken state. His uneven breathing breaks the still silence of his bedroom.

It’s cold.

He closes his eyes for a moment and again, a sharp headache drills into his brain.

It’s been quite a while since he’s had a nightmare.

…

“So, we can assume it’s safe.”

“Yes, it’s been moved from the National Diet Building in Tokyo to Narashino Garrison headquarters in Chiba.”

“Japanese Special Forces Group. Wise move.” M nods, reclining back on his leather chair. The briefing is taking place at his office to gather the few members of the Secret Intelligence Service aware of the current locations of the four discs. The only present are Tanner, Moneypenny, Q and of course, double oh seven. Keeping a safe distance from Bond, the young Quartermaster stands next to Eve instead.

“Not sure for how long.”

“If the discs never left England, then there’s a high chance the contractor’s lurking here,” Bond says, drumming his fingers over M’s desk.

“He could send an associate to Japan, just like he did in Dubai.”

“I don’t think he’ll risk another failed attempt in a near future. Besides, double oh four is already there gathering information and scanning any presence of the African guerrilla members in the country,” informs Tanner, handing some clipped papers over to M.

“About Ruth Mardling.” Moneypenny opens the black folder she’s holding and starts reading. “Q Branch has been monitoring her e-mails. There seems to be a daily exchange of messages with a company called Warren & Co.” She stops and turns to Q, expecting him to pick up from there but the young man doesn’t say a word.

“Anything we need to know?” M inquires, addressing him.

The Quartermaster snaps out of his private meditation and answers, “It’s a fake organization. Not the same contractor that paid Maalouf but the e-mails show cryptic messages.”

“What kind of messages?” Bond asks. The Quartermaster and Bond are mirror images of each other, blatantly avoiding each other's gazes and making it a point to stare elsewhere.

“Diamond samples to be delivered this week and lots of bluffing about their lower costs, according to the market media,” he answers hurriedly.

“Anything relevant from the night at the fashion show?” asks M.

 _Besides going through the most aggravating moment of the year with a co-worker?_ Q mentally answers. He can’t hold back an unpleasant sensation of shame and he lowers his gaze as a blush reaches his cheeks. Earlier that morning he had mentally prepared himself for this meeting and he tried his best to look confident and greet Bond casually. He felt a similar type of anxiety and awkwardness after the night M’s death. It didn’t take much effort to go back to his center, really. He’s not seeking anyone’s approval or wishing for a condescending pat on the back. He’s certainly not resentful nor upset about the outcome of his altercate with Bond and he’s more than capable of passing this test.   

“Not much. She mentioned a new jewelry collection but it looks like a future project with no particular date of release,” the agent answers. 

“Nothing about diamonds?” inquires M resting both elbows on top of his desk.

“Nothing.”

“Arrange another informal meeting to discuss on this. You know what you have to do.” M closes the folder of the case and opens a new one. “Tanner, you stay. The rest is dismissed. Now, about double oh five…”

 _You know what you have to do_. Something impossible to define creeps in Q’s chest from nowhere. Of course he knows what to do. The same as always. But it’s all over now. No need to over analyze anything anymore. No demands, no fears or betrayal.

They leave M’s office and Q heads towards the R&D department to continue with research. He leaves Eve and double oh seven in the elevator as he reaches his level and steps outside. He lingers a little waiting for the doors to close and the last thing he sees from the crack of the sliding doors, are Bond’s thin lips moving, engaged in a lively conversation with Moneypenny.

_Whatever._

Q really hopes the tracking chip will work this time. It’s been weeks since he started shrinking its 1.00 mm size to something less visible to the naked eye but nothing works. The design of the circuit is turning into a ridiculously complicated task. The meticulous changes of the architecture of something this small are similar to cutting the branches off a Japanese Bonsai. OrCAD is being a pain in the arse to work with and there’s a possibility that the cause of the problem is a missing library on Windows. He tries in vain to switch to other operating systems through the VMM but all the paths lead to the same conclusion: reinstalling everything.

He loads Windows and tries to make it work once more. Same error and yes, it is a missing library. But how come? It was perfectly working yesterday. Unless…

“Who reinstalled OrCAD without cleaning the registry?” The Quartermaster asks, rubbing his eyes with a palm within a blatant manifestation of frustration.

There’s no reply from the back. His subordinates and interns stand very still, some search into each other’s gazes wondering who the culprit is and everything’s so silent that even the sound of a fly can be heard in the room.

“I don’t think I have to remind you all that there’s a deadline and we are wasting precious time here. Such level of stupidity is unconceivable in this institution,” he rants throwing glances around the room. He then focuses his attention back on the installation and curses under his breath about the inebriated Silicon Valley moron who couldn’t make his own operating system work at the CES launch.

“Sir, we could use SLASH, instead,” one of the interns suggests softly, measuring the weight of each of her words.

“Really?” Q snaps turning to face the young girl who looks like a scared rabbit. “Really?! A piece of shite with no PCB editing and no support in other platforms other than Windows?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “How did you even get this job?”

With a hurt expression upon her face, the girl takes a step back and returns to her desk. Some of the Q Branch personnel don’t dare lift their gaze from their screens and others walk in a hurry to leave the scene behind and escape the Quartermaster’s temperamental outburst. A group of young men avert their look when they notice Q’s caught them staring at him.

The only brave man in the room, Charles, clears his throat. “The installation is complete, sir.”

It’s nothing new for Q to be utterly upset by incompetence. But he’s especially irritable with this lack of professionalism coming from his own department. He calms down just a bit as he re-designs the circuit and after the fifth try of printing, chemical etching, soldering and testing, it finally works. The chip mutated from 1mm to 0.5 mm and it’s perfectly functional. His grin of satisfaction lightens the ambience and he takes a moment to look at his clock and… It’s seven pm. He had skipped lunch and a possible coffee break. He realizes the girl with the green tea didn’t show up today with his hot beverage. She probably got scared when he yelled at that poor intern. He didn’t mean to sound abusive or intimidating but the stress was getting to him.

On his way back home he makes a stop at the supermarket to pick up some goods. He ends up buying instantaneous noodles because he’s actually not in the mood for cooking tonight, not after such a long and tiring day. He could have ordered online but sometimes it’s okay to go out and face the rest of the mortals in simple activities. Besides, he really enjoys picking up his oranges, squeezing them to test its ripeness, smelling its scent and considering an appropriate size. He holds his grocery basket hooked in one arm and travels down the display rack filled with cereal boxes. He looks down at his cellphone when a message from Sarah interrupts _Mustang Sally_ playing in his ears.  She wants him to have dinner with them tomorrow night. Q answers with a simple ‘ok’ and resumes his shopping.

The following day the Quartermaster saves the prototype of the department’s newest pride and joy in the safe. They produced two chips, ready for use. One of them goes to Bond. So when the man enters Q Branch with Tanner, Q’s standing in front of his desk with the black box sitting at its top. Q wanted to be ready to face Bond, yet again, without giving a sign of his anxiety.

“And what do we have here?” Double oh seven asks, running his fingers over the lid of the hard-drive sized box.

Q opens the box. Inside there’s a small syringe of sorts. The item is about the size of an index finger and it has a central tube with translucent liquid inside and a red dot at one end. Absolutely clueless, Tanner and Bond lift their perplexed stares to the Quartermaster.

“This is a tracking chip. It’s meant to be swallowed and it has a special protective layer to prevent imminent destruction by digestive enzymes. The autonomy is extendable for two days max, depending on, well,” Q pauses, adjusting his glasses and cracking a smile, “the subject’s regular gastric secretion, that is.”

“Thousands of quid on research going down the toilet. Literally,” Bond remarks with a grin as he takes the syringe with his fingers. “And the chip’s swimming in here?” he asks.

The young man nods and counts to five before answering because that kind of question is the type that makes him want to smash his head against a wall. Q and his team have been working like farm horses in researching and completing insane hours of testing for Bond to come and think of it as a little fish in a bowl. “Yes. It’s in there. See that red dot? The chip’s contained there. The gel under that space is to ensure there will be enough pressure for the release. Now, to apply this,” he explains, pointing to the top of the bag, “this band must be removed. This,” he says, pointing to the enclosed tiny needle at the top, “must be aimed at the precise spot and then you have to press the bottom of the bag. The chip can be poured in food or drinks. It activates itself with the chemical reaction of the surface in contact with saliva. Then, we can track the GPS signal from headquarters.”

Tanner stares at the object in Bond's fingers while Bond and Q stare at each other. This is the first time they make eye contact for more than a second since that night. Q senses the natural curiosity in double oh seven about the device but something else too, a silent question.

“This will work to track Ruth Mardling. If she knows the location of the company sending the e-mails, she’ll lead us there,” says Tanner, and turning his attention to Q, “Good job.”

“Thanks.”

“Question,” starts Bond.

“Shoot.”

“What if the chip accidentally comes back to me?”

Q’s lips part and he frowns, trying to process the question. “Pardon?”

“What if I kiss her and the chip ends up in my mouth?”

He wasn’t expecting that. The son of a bitch led him to a trap and he allowed him to do it. The Quartermaster didn’t consider that event too seriously because the tiny fragment’s supposed to go as soon as the subject drinks it or eats it. But what if he kisses her immediately after she takes a sip of her glass? This raises further potential. Bond planted that image in Q’s mind on purpose.

“I suppose it would be most unfortunate.” The tone of his voice changed just a fraction but he remains calm. “I trust you’d understand the risks of engaging in activities that might compromise the potential use of the equipment.”

“But what if it happens? Should I kiss her again to pass the chip?” Bond asks, making his playfulness obvious even to Tanner, who’s now looking back and forth between them.

“You could try. But I believe you’ve just jeopardized the mission, _sir,”_ the Quartermaster answers empathizing the last word with a smile.

“Perhaps you could add a second chip, in case of, you know, an emergency.”

“Noted.”

A ping pong game with hidden meanings is annoying and unprofessional. It’s interesting to see how the cracks of a rejected Bond can surface and leave Q as the most mature of the two. Double oh seven’s nostrils flare; Q knows frustration when he sees it but he doesn’t let it bother him. He had acted as the bigger man. He’s not going to hide in the corners and cry. He internally accepted his mistake and has successfully prevented the escalation of an ensuing disaster.

“What time did you arrange the meeting?” Tanner asks. Bond shrugs.

 “Cafe Boheme at six. I should get going.”

“Good. Report back as soon as you’re finished.”

“That won’t be until tomorrow morning.”

 _Keeping it classy, aren’t we_ , Q mentally adds. ~~~~

Tanner starts his way to the doors. “Very well, I’ll report M about your move.” And he disappears.

“So, that is all?” The agent closes the lid of the small box in his hands as he speaks.

The Quartermaster stares at him in silence, not a single muscle of his face moving. What is this insistence? What is he going after? Q made it clear that the prospects of any viable relationship between both men are impossible and not even the slightest chance of exclusivity could ever be reached. There are things that are not meant to be. And it’s as simple as that. Bond’s feelings show an altered stage towards Q. He’s still going after him, Q can tell. There is a semblance of resignation written upon his face; resignation mixed with an obscene desire to wreck the Quartermaster’s composure. A futile attempt in which the blond-haired won’t be able to fulfill, because for Q, everything between them has ended.

“Yes. I don’t think carrying a gun to a date would be appropriate, do you?” the Quartermaster inquires, running a finger over the edge of his desk.

“Oh, you never know.”

“I can provide you with a bulletproof vest, in case of exploding pastries.” Q folds his arms on his chest, facing Bond. The other man’s chest rises and falls, like he's restraining himself from doing something, a wrong move. It appears as though he’s trying very hard to control his urge to reply sarcastically and in the end, the urge dominates the self-control.

“Does it come in red? I want to make a good impression on her.”

“Good luck, double oh seven.” Q cracks a smile and walks towards a nearby desk. He gives him one last look over the frame of his glasses, still smiling. The man puts the chip in the inner pocket of his jacket and, with a simple nod of his head, he leaves.

Q survived the first round. He can do this.

…

“You did _what_?”

“Listen, it’s going to be okay, Ely. Ely! Come on!” his sister says, grabbing her brother’s arm to prevent him from escaping. The Quartermaster fights Sarah’s grip to get his coat back on and walk towards the door.

“I’m not going to do this.”

“Would you please let me explain?” she asks in a pleading tone.  

With a deep sigh, he lets his shoulders fall and stares at the ceiling. “Make it quick and then I’ll leave.”

Sarah lets go of his arm and closes the front door. She gestures with a hand for both to sit on the couch of her living-room, the pastel colors surrounding Q’s dark clothing like a raven in a corn field.   

“He’s a surgeon, single, he lives in Battersea and sounds like a really nice chap. He’s just moved from Bristol and he wants to make friends. Mike likes him very much.”

“Then he should go ahead and date him.”                                                               

“Come on, give it a try. I promise that if things get weird I’ll make a perfect excuse for you to leave.”

“I can make up my own excuses.”

“It’s just a night. And then I won’t bug you for another month.” She pauses. “Well, make that fifteen days.”

“I don’t need anyone right now, Sarah. I’m okay, really.”

His sister gives him a look of apprehension. “You haven’t talked to me about a guy like this Bond fella. He was something. Give me the satisfaction of compensating for you.”

“Thing is, I don’t need compensation because nothing happened. I’ll be okay.”

The petite woman grabs his hand and squeezes it tight. “Please?”

Q sighs and looks at his wristwatch. It’s almost nine and this man is surely going to pop up at any moment. Besides, Sarah’s probably arranged the dining table for four guests and if there are only three present, it will be rude to the newcomer. “All right. But I don’t promise anything.”

“Brilliant!” she beams reaching for the Quartermaster’s cheek and planting a noisy kiss. She leaves the couch with her fists tight against her chest and grinning as she trots to the kitchen. Q proceeds to take his coat off again and leaves it on a hanging perch.

The bell rings and thankfully, Michael gets it.

“Hey, mate!”

The man at the door is taller than Mike and subsequently, Q. He has broad shoulders and a fit look, more according to a boxer than a doctor. He has short black hair with some longer strands falling close to his mahogany eyes and fair skin. Under his straight-edge nose, a pair of full lips that stretch wide at the sight of Sarah’s husband in a handsome smile.  The Quartermaster has to admit he’s very good looking.

“Oh, this is Ely, my brother-in-law. Ely, this is John Ballard. A friend from work.” Mike puts a hand over Q’s shoulder, encouraging him to introduce himself to the guest.

The younger man extends his hand and John shakes it.“A pleasure, Ely.”

“Q,” he interrupts.

The tall man gives him a lopsided look. “Ely or Q?”

“I prefer Q,” he answers with a smile. “Long story.”

“Worth listening, I’m sure!” John says looking back at his friend with a delighted grin. 

Mike flashes a full teeth smile. “You have no idea. Come with me, I want you to meet Sarah.”

“Sure. Excuse me,” he says with a polite nod in the Quartermaster’s direction.

“Go ahead.”

Sarah cooked as if she was going to be the host of a regiment’s visit. Q is full after the third bite of the Beef Wellington on his dish while Mike is an eating machine, alternating between chewing and talking with his friend. Sarah interacts with them a little, but she is more interested in exchanging glances with her brother than getting deep into the conversation. She is sitting in front of him and next to her boyfriend at the head of the table, while Q is placed next to John.

The conversation goes from the man’s arrival from Bristol, to how much he prefers London to his old place and how expensive is gas from one location to the other. He talks little about his family. Q learns that he has no siblings and both parents are dead. A coincidence with a certain someone Q knows but he brushes away the thought the moment it comes to mind.

The guest inquires him about his name, and the nature of Q’s profession is out in the light. He answers in the most simple of ways he can without making himself come off as extremely particular. With an apparent interest, Ballard listens resting his cheek on his fist.  At least he didn’t make fun of his decision like any other would have. Even better, from that point on, he refers to him as ‘Q’, leaving Ely to the Quartermaster’s sister and her boyfriend. Q takes this as a very nice gesture.

It gets late and at the moment of departure, John offers Q a ride. The younger man exchanges a look with Sarah who simply nods and after bidding each other farewell, he drives him to the front door of his apartment building.

Q has a feeling of a déjà-vu and he tightens his grip on the hem of his coat. He clears his throat and lifts his face from his lap to look at the driver. Ballard’s inches away from his lips, and without hesitation he leans closer to press a kiss. Taken aback from the violation of his personal place, Q glues his head to the window pane on his side and Ballard moves back.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s just that…”

“No, no. I’m sorry. That was out of line. Listen, I know the whole event was awkward and you don’t know me but,” the other man makes a pause, leaning back against his seat, “I quite fancy you. But if you don’t want to go any further, I absolutely understand.”

Q remains silent for a moment. He grabs the handle of the passenger’s door. He’s going to do something stupid, but nothing lately makes much sense anyway. A leap of faith, or a moment of stupidity. “Come with me.”

John blinks a couple of times and raises both eyebrows. His expression melds into something of determination and in a swift movement, he moves closer and kisses the Quartermaster again, resting a palm over Q’s jaw. He doesn’t find resistance this time, but he doesn’t go further than a gentle brush of lips. He finally pulls back and smiles.

“I’m afraid that’s not a good idea.”

Q frowns and tightens the grip on the handle, visibly upset. Ballard shakes his head and adds, “I know you’re tired, and I don’t want to rush this. I’ll see you tomorrow. I can pick you out from work. What do you say?”

“Sure. I’ll be out at six.”

“Great. I’ll see you then.”

“Good night.”

The red lights of the car fade as he turns on the corner of Q’s street and the young man stays there, looking at the now empty dark road. He can’t push back the memory of Bond’s car leaving him after that first dinner and how odd it felt. Similar situations, with mixed feelings. It’s like looking at the pictures of the same album but with different actors. Promises, hopes, lies.

 _Fear_. 

A barking dog interrupted his daze state and eventually, Q goes inside. He needs a warm, soothing shower.

…

 

“So he went for it.”

“Double oh seven’s not going to pass a mission without a bang.”

“He got his hands on the job, hm?”

“He didn’t report yet. Busy night, eh!”

The men standing by the vending machine laughed as Q passed them. He didn’t report yet and the only concern for the Quartermaster is that the GPS signal did not activate. A possibility is that the chip dissolved with the contact of the woman’s mouth but it’s impossible. If that was the case, then the woman’s oxyntic gland must be a deadly factory for the production of gastric acid, enough to kill the small device. But it can’t be! After Q Branch got the chip running, they tested it a dozen times with different variations of pH to reinforce the viability of the object’s use. So that’s out of the question.

The doors of the elevators are closing and a hand stops them. The metal doors slide open and a man enters. Q’s looking down at his papers and doesn’t have to imagine who he is. He can smell the familiar musky scent.

“Good morning.”

“Morning.”

Bond and the Quartermaster step out and walk towards M’s office. Even Moneypenny is waiting for them at the door and she curls her lips in a devious smile. She probably heard the rumors of the agent’s sexual performance as well. People seriously need to get a life.

“News?” M asks, clasping his fingers together.

The double oh agent bites his upper lip and shakes his head. “Nothing, yet. She said Martin Young is in touch with wealthy investors from Sweden and South Africa.”

“Sweden? That’s odd.” Moneypenny comments, crossing her legs on one of the chairs in front of the desk. 

“Gold,” Bond answers straightening his back, hands in pocket. The few rays of sunshine coming from the office’s window make the short blond hair almost translucent to the eye.

“I see. What about her whereabouts?” asks M, turning his attention to Q.

The young man lifts his chin, holding his papers close to his chest. “No signal has been activated.”

“Malfunction?”

“I didn’t use the chip.”

In unison, everyone turned to stare at Bond. M seemed the most interested in the agent’s  declaration. Q sighed, relieved. Well, at least it wasn’t Q Branch’s problem. But he wanted to put the chip in use to test it properly in an uncontrolled environment. 

“And the reason being…?”

“I almost got caught. The situation got out of hand when I was at about to put the chip in her drink and an acquaintance of hers came to our table and greeted her.” Double oh seven shifts his weight from one feet to the other.

 “And you didn’t have any other chance to do it?” asks M, toying with a pen between his fingers.

“No. She had an urgent meeting afterwards. A reunion at 8, according to her.”

So he didn’t get her in bed. He didn’t touch her. He could have waited until the meeting was over to take her again and he didn’t do it. Q could not believe that after their conversation the agent could drastically change the modus operandi of his missions. From the little time he’s known Bond, he’s sure he’d never put a task on a second level to give his private life, priority. Escaping a dangerous situation, however, sounds more reasonable. The agent knows by instinct when the water is at about to boil in the kettle and when he has to lower the intensity of the fire. Perhaps he saw that the woman was not ready for his advances and he didn’t want to risk the success of the mission.

Moneypenny bites her lower lip. She is visibly amused by this.

“The only lead we have is Ruth Mardling. We need her.” M signs page after page of the reports piled upon his desk.

Bond nods. “I’ll arrange another meeting tonight, if possible.”

“Good. You can go now.”

As soon as they step outside M’s office, Eve is the first one who breaks the silence. “This must be the first time in your career that you need a second date with a woman,” she jokes.

Bond frowns. “My time with her was not entirely related to the mission, mind you.”

“A keeper? Oh my, this is shocking news.” Eve draws an “o” with her lips and covers her mouth with her fingers.

The three walk down the corridor when one of the security guards walks in a rush towards them. “Sir, there’s someone waiting down at the main hall for you,” he says, addressing Q.

“Who?”

“Name’s John Ballard, sir.”

The Quartermaster looks down at his wristwatch. It’s ten past six. He forgot about him coming to pick him up. “Right. Please tell him I’ll be down in a minute.”

“A friend?”

Q slowly turns to eye Bond bemused. “Not that it’s anyone’s business but no, he’s not.”

Eve sensed the tension between them but kept her thoughts, whatever they were, to herself. She clears her throat. “Well, I have work to do. Good bye, gentlemen.” The sound of the clicking of her high heels echoes in the hall as the woman elegantly walks away, leaving both men alone.

“I’m going down too,” says Bond, pressing a button of the elevator’s panel.

“Good.”

The elevator stops at Q Branch’s level and Q goes to gather his things up, leaving Bond behind. He closes the files he was working on and leaves instructions to one of his subordinates concerning double oh five’s mission. With quick steps he makes his way to the bathroom and washes his face in a hurry. He combs his hair and leans closer to look deeper into his eyes. They are a bit reddish, but he’ll be fine. He only hopes this man won’t suggest going to the movies because he’s going to start bleeding out of his eye sockets.

The doors of the elevator open and he can see Ballard getting up from the couch. He’s wearing a dark brown suit under a large black coat, framing his wide shoulders. He approaches with a warm smile. “Hey.”

“Hey,” the Quartermaster answers, returning the gesture.

“So this is the super secret bunker you work at.” The other man looks around the large entrance of the headquarters.

“It’s not a bunker but yes, I do.” Q chuckles as he runs a hand through his hair. He feels like a stupid teen picked up at his parents’ house to go to a party. And he hates that. But it doesn’t feel so uncomfortable with John. He actually feels more relaxed around this man. It’s probably due to the fact that he’s not a work partner. Q harbored a little of anxiety through the day after last night but it was quickly put away as soon as he started working on double oh four’s connections from Japan.

“You look tired.” John reaches under Q’s chin and lifts his face, staring at the black circles under his eyes.

Q makes a soft sound with his throat and gently jerks away from his touch. “Long day, but I’m ready to go.”

“A word, Q.”

The Quartermaster turns around to find double oh seven, standing tense behind him. There's a hostile tone in his voice and the muscles in his face and neck are tight. The young man excuses himself and walks with him, a couple of feet away from Ballard.

“Yes?”

“I need another chip.”

“Excuse me?” Q blinks several times, already feeling the anger rising up his spine.

“I lost the one you gave me. I need a new one. I didn’t mention it because I didn’t want to generate unnecessary conflict.”

“Are you telling me you’ve lost the equipment that took days in the making?” Q answers in a hurry as the blood in his jugular boils with anger. “And you pretend me to build you a new one? Now?”

“I need it. And I suppose the mission comes before personal time.” Bond throws a glare to at Ballard who’s just staring at both with an oddly calm expression. “You’ve taken extra shifts before. What’s holding you now?”

Q clicks his tongue and shakes his head in disbelief. No. He’s not going to ruin his day with a childish scene. If he knew how insufferable the double oh agent was from the very beginning, it would have never dared cross his mind to even think of having a fling with him. MI6 should reconsider the idea of taking orphans as potential recruits because they seem to forget the world does not revolve around them. He will not comply with the petulant demands of a grown up man who can’t get take ‘no’ for an answer.

And he could bet a million pounds that Bond’s lying.

The Quartermaster takes a couple of steps closer to the front desk of the lobby and exchanges a few words with the woman behind it. He picks up a phone and gestures Bond to approach.

“Yes. Charles, I need a favor. Gather the afternoon team to build a new CMT 41 for double oh seven. You’re in charge.” He pauses as he lightly sways on his feet. “Yeah, I know. I know. Right. Thanks. Bye.” Q hangs up and tilting his head to Bond, he adjusts his satchel on his shoulder. “Done. It will be ready in an hour. Satisfied?”

The older man parts his lips wanting to say something but he stops. His anger gradually transforms into something Q can’t read. The Quartermaster watches him, still upset, his jaw clenched tight.

“Good bye, Bond.”

Forcing a smile, he returns to John’s side and they leave MI6. John’s car is parked a couple of blocks away because of the security perimeter established for the building. 

“Problems?”

“None at all. I’m starving. You pick up the place.”

He doesn’t dare look back, but Q’s sure Bond’s still standing there, watching them as they leave. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some references about real scenarios/institutions/etc:
> 
> * National Diet Building, Japan: is the place where both houses of the Diet of Japan meet. It is located at 1-chome, Nagatachō, Chiyoda, Tokyo.  
> * Japanese Special Forces Group: is the Japanese Ground Self-Defense Force's counter-terrorist unit established by the former Japanese Defense Agency to counter terrorist activities and deter guerrilla-style attacks on Japanese soil.  
> * OrCAD: is a software for designing electronic systems such as printed circuit boards and integrated circuits.  
> * SLASH: same as above, different company.


	8. Chapter 8

“Good morning.”

He grasps the bed sheets and throws them over his head, blocking the brightness of sunlight. There’s a scent that’s not his in bed and the mattress feels more comfortable than usual. He curls his toes and nuzzles against the pillow and a weight sinks next to him. A hand runs through Q’s unruly hair and slowly makes its way down to his shoulder, pushing the sheets inches away, revealing his white skin. A pair of warm lips kisses a shoulder blade.

The Quartermaster groans and slowly rolls to face John, laying on his side, one elbow resting over a pillow. John curves his lips upwards into a lazy smile. Q slowly becomes aware of his surroundings. Firstly, because he’s entirely naked. Secondly, because this is not his bed and this room is bigger and brighter than his own bedroom. Thirdly, because his entire body hurts.

It had been rough. Rougher than he had expected. The sex started slowly, rather boring and insipid, actually. It was a mechanical, dull act, with the only purpose of allowing someone else to assist him into reaching his orgasm through penetration. Technical. Simple. But when Ballard picked up a steady pace, the Quartermaster closed his eyes and the images started forming in his mind. A pair of disappointed blue eyes. Thin lips moving, demanding his full attention. The flushed skin of the other man’s neck, hot with anger.

The sound of Bond’s voice.

Something kicked Q’s psyche and from that point on, through gritted teeth, there was only one word continuously coming out of his mouth.

_“Harder.”_

The more he tried to push those thoughts away, the more vividly Bond's presence invaded his senses. Their last argument wasn’t the only scene in his mind. The memories of the kiss in the alley. His laughter at The Red Lion. The teasing at MI6. And everything conspired against him to make his body react, relishing in the warmth from those moments. He hated his body and mind for betraying him and he hated himself even more for not being able to stop it. At some point he hated the man at his back using him, and the fact that he was allowing it because he needed it. He yearned for somebody else in that bed and for such idiocy he wanted the pain desperately as a self punishment for his foolishness. For thinking about double oh seven, which is wrong and stupid. But the most imperative notion, right in that moment, was that he wanted to forget for at least five minutes who he was and what was he doing in a stranger’s bed.

As a matter of fact, he had never planned to let John fuck him like that.

Perhaps his bonding with double oh seven was getting too intimate, too deep for his own good. And with Ballard... well, that was nothing more than a fortuitous encounter, an encounter needed to reduce the stress weighing upon his own shoulders. Ballard doesn’t come across as a man who’s going to demand anything from Q when it comes to one's comfort zone, and for that convenience, Q is quite grateful.

Sex with strangers is great to erase any traces of guilt left in your system. Ballard’s good in bed and that’s all that matters. The relation the man has with her brother-in-law is not a burden he should carry like a compromise of sorts. John’s a good device to transport Q to a limbo state and reset his mind. The Quartermaster really needs to let go and get a fucking grip.

And forget.

…

Bond is late reporting at headquarters for the third day in a row.

At first, it came out as an odd event. But during their briefings at M’s office, he let “Ruth” slip once instead of “Mardling” when he referred to the CEO of Martin Young, and anyone can put two plus two together. M and Tanner seemed to ignore the fact, but Eve and Q exchanged a glance for a brief second taking on the implications of something of that nature. The following day, Q overhears Moneypenny chatting with a fellow agent about how surreal it is that double oh seven is going steady with a target and then the knowledge of Bond breaking his one night stand routine with women began spreading like wildfire. Going steady, meaning more than a one night stand. And if a woman can raise the challenge he faced with the ill fated relationship he had with Vesper Lynd, one should obviously take this as extremely rare. But more than a night with Mardling, so far, doesn’t seem as something to be considered as commitment, per se.

Everything, at last, is going back to normal.

…

“The chip’s been planted.”

Q rubs his eyes and nods in acknowledgement. It’s three a.m. and the signal has been activated, meaning Bond finally made her swallow it. Q Branch has been informed that double oh seven is going to make his move today. The last e-mail exchange between Mardling and Warren & Co provides details about a meeting between the interested parties, and that demanded extra shifts. Now it’s too late to leave everything in Charles’ hands, so Q will have to endure and fill his system with large loads of coffee to stay awake.

The signal’s not moving, meaning she’s sleeping by now.

Probably curled against Bond’s bare chest.

Q stares at the floor with his head down, elbows on knees and his sight lost in the labyrinthine patterns of the marble. He shakes his head and his chest falls as he exhales before he stands up and gathers himself back together. This is precious time that must be used, and the waiting gives Q the chance to go to R&D and continue with a delayed project: a new fabric built with a thermally activated cooling system for environments with extreme heat. If successful, it will provide any agent working at a location with a temperature over 40º  C a physical relief to carry on with the task, and be unaltered by climatic conditions. Something the British Army finds irresistible to sport with the remaining troops in Afghanistan to show its technological supremacy over the rest of the countries of the coalition. It’s like Paris’ Fashion Week, only with guns.

Differing from the DRI-fit polyester material, MI6’s product inserts nanoparticles of a very light mix of liquid nitrogen into the microfibers. When the body temperature rises above 36º C, the particles react and a cooling process begins, lowering to an acceptable body heat of 32º C.

Absently chewing his sugar-free gum, Q stares at the screen on his desk and rests his cheek upon a fist. There’s _Medeski Martin and Wood_ playing in the air. When Q Branch goes into a research marathon, Q allows music in the background to lighten up the atmosphere in the room, because he and his subordinates will be stuck together for hours and they better have something to break the silence. The Quartermaster discusses the chances of using another compost instead of the modified nitrogen substance, but pros and cons are definitely playing in favor for the latter.

Charles calls him back to the main office because the woman’s moving at last. The communication line is open with Bond, who’s following her at safe distance and Q activates the surveillance cameras on Regent Street to do the same. The shapes of the light gray buildings reflect on the polarized car windows as it makes its way to the fancy _Caffé Concerto_ at Picadilly. 

Ruth Mardling enters the café and slowly makes her way to a table by the window where a middle aged man is sitting. The brunette removes her sunglasses and greets him with a sultry smile. The man, with an incipient baldness and a thick moustache, nods nervously. His simple and plain brown shirt and flannel jacket clashes like water and oil opposite the exquisite polka dot black and white dress of the CEO woman.

“What do we have about him?” asks Tanner, arms crossed over his chest.

“Nothing yet.” One by one and at an incredible speed, the database shows the faces of the thousands of subjects registered for the South African guerrilla groups. “No match,” informs the Quartermaster, taking a sip of his tea.

“Use filters at the General Register Office. London only,” the Chief of Staff requests.

Q nods and his fingers move at high-speed against the keyboard. He runs a search engine he built that links and grants access to a large number of databases in the country, including the GRO, in categories and different branches, according to the level of complexity of the search. He takes a snapshot of the man’s face in a new window to run face recognition and he adds it to the rest of the fields he proceeds to fill to narrow the results. With this, he can cross references such as appearance, ethnicity, medical records, and more.

“Age gap between forties and fifties, light brown skin, brown hair, almond shaped eyes…” He zooms in and cuts the shape of the man from the rest of the picture, measuring his proportions and giving an accurate height to include in the search. “Five feet four… Hm.”  The Quartermaster narrows his eyes and leans forward, studying the man as though he had x-ray vision. “Swollen ankles and sweating. Dilated pupils indicating tension. Probably has hypertensive heart disease.” _And dreadful taste in clothing_ , he mentally adds. 

He continues adding possible features to reduce the results but it’s going to take a while to identify a single man out of 8 million residents of the Capital City area. The young man turns his attention to screen at the right of the database search. The CCTV window shows a very quiet Bond in the Aston Martin’s driver’s seat staring at the café window from the other side of the road. Q lowers his gaze to the keyboard.

Tanner points to the large screen at the front. “What’s that?”

The man at the café takes a large manila envelope from his suitcase and slides it over the table to the woman. She extracts some papers from it and a pleased grin appears upon her burgundy painted lips.

“Got a match.” Q maximizes the photo of the man in question. “Roger Cowan… employed at Tesco on Bernard Street… no political affiliation or criminal record.” The Quartermaster turns to look at Tanner. “He’s clean.”

 _Then why is he there?_ This is the question that undoubtedly arises in everyone's mind. What does a simple, working middle-class man have to do with a multimillionaire business? Why is this man, obviously not in his element, delivering what seems to be precious information in a place like this?

Without exchanging a single word, the CEO and Cowan leave their table and make their way to the exit. In the car, Bond starts the engine, ready to follow her. “I’m on the move.”

“Follow Cowan. Leave the woman,” orders Tanner.

“She has the papers.”

“Cowan is the only direct link we have with the discs. Follow him.”

With a grunt of disgust, the double oh agent makes a U turn, and a cab driver, who was at about to crash against the Aston Martin, makes a not-so-gentlemanly comment about his mother and Bond’s driving skills. The short man, Cowan, walks in a hurry. His stumpy legs move quickly over the sidewalk and he turns around the corner at Fouberts, a narrow pedestrian street. Cursing under his breath, Bond makes another unexpected turn and parks the car in Conduit Street, the closest and only available place for parking. The loud and furious honking of the rest of the cars make Tanner cringes. Yes. Double oh seven can be very subtle when he wants to be.

“Where?” the agent asks of headquarters.

“He’s heading towards Marshall, but still on Fouberts. Hurry up,” instructs the Quartermaster, drumming his thumb against the table.

“Next time I’m taking you as my driver, Q.” Bond walks through the crowd, trying not to bump into the sea people around him, but it’s impossible. “That will save me some time in the future.”

“Last time I checked, I haven’t been built into a GPS,” says Q, a small smile forming upon his face. 

“Oh, I’d love to drive around with your funny little voice providing directions. Add that to my Christmas wish list.”

Bond races across Regent. He makes his way through the street filled with clothing shops, coffee kiosks and pots full of flowers on the windows, one level up from the ground. At headquarters, Q can see Cowan’s bald head moving in the multitude.

“You’re getting closer.”

“I see him.”

Double oh seven slows his pace just a fraction to keep a safe distance from the other man. He makes a stop at a bookshop nearby, keeping an eye on the bald man, who, with shaking hands, holds a bunch of keys and unlocks the white door of his apartment. Roger Cowan goes inside. Bond approaches the door and looks up. It’d be really easy to climb, but there are too many people around watching.    

“Something’s wrong…” Q shifts his attention from the CCTV camera showing Cowan’s apartment to the profile at its right.

“What is it?” asks Bond, hand pressed against his ear.

“That’s not his house. He lives in Hammersmith. That’s 8.4 kilometers away from where you are.”

The agent looks around and raises his glance to one of the surveillance cameras. “A lover? Sister? Friend?”

“No… nothing connects him there.” Q slides his finger down the menu of the subject’s relatives and acquaintances trying to find a familiar address. “Must be a hideout of sorts.”

“Right. I’m going in.” Bond rearranges his tie and clears his throat, ready to offer the ‘I have a subscription for a magazine of your interest, sir’ façade he wears on occasions.

“Don’t.”

From the back of Q Branch, M’s command breaks the conversation like a crack of thunder. Tanner and Q turn to look at the newcomer as he approaches their desk. “Report back to headquarters.”

“But, sir, he’s the only connect-“ Tanner starts to complain.

“Send a surveillance team to stay in the area and watch his moves. The papers in Mardling’s hands are priority. Come back, double oh seven.”

 _He must be angry_ , thinks Q. A part of a mission, as small as it might be that doesn’t involve women or killing must be frustrating for a man of action like Bond. From the crystal eyes of the cameras, the Quartermaster sees the agent drawing his best poker face as he walks back to the busy path of Regent Street.

…

_“Indian or Thai?”_

Q types the answer regarding food quickly and locks his cellphone again. John’s pretty good at respecting personal space, he thinks. He doesn’t bother Q at all during work hours of the day with silly messages and when he picks him up at six, he always asks if he wants to go to sleep alone or have dinner with him. He’s not clingy, and that’s more than Q could ever ask for. The Quartermaster steps out of the elevator and walks to the common room for a much needed break. 

“Where’s the suit?”

“Oh.” Q lowers the tea can he’s holding from his lips and turns to face Callum McDougall, the head of Defense Branch, standing in the hallway. The tall man’s face is red with little sweat drops forming on his temples. “Not done yet. Might be for next Tuesday.”

“That’s peachy.” The other man bites his lower lip and shakes his head, looking at the wall. “Tell me, how much are you being paid for your incompetence?”

“It’s not my problem if logistics took more than a week to deliver the chemical synthesizers in time,” the Quartermaster answers trying to control the tone of his voice.

“It is your problem if we are delayed because of your little, ah, _mishap._ The presentation is due next Wednesday and we can’t offer the kind of dim-witted excuses you pull out of your sleeve to evade responsibilities.” McDougall steps closer, one fist tight at his side and Q wonders that if there weren’t so many cameras around them, he’d have probably pushed Q against a wall. But he’s grown used to this kind of intimidation from superiors in previous jobs, and he has an idea how to handle to such a character.

“Like I said, it’s not my problem.” Tightening his grip on the can, Q squeezes it before letting it fall in the bin against the wall. “I can’t control logistics, it’s not my area!”

“All areas are your area if you have a deadline, boy! This never happened with the previous one.” The Head of DB covers his eyes with a palm in frustration. “This is the Secret Intelligence Service. You have to push them to get the fucking delivery on time. Christ, I warned M about this. He should have listened. He shouldn’t put a little brat in charge of Q Branch.”

“Like he said, he’s not in charge of logistics.”

From behind Q, Bond steps in and stands by his Quartermaster’s side, hands in pockets, defiant.

“Oh, great.” McDougall throws his head backwards and then glances to the other end of the corridor and then back at the agent. “This is out of your reach, Bond. You might be one of SIS’ favorites but that doesn’t authorize you to put your nose into this. Just stay out okay?”

“Not planning to. Making him responsible for something that’s out of his reach is idiotic,” double oh seven answers, immutable. Q grabs his elbow with his left hand and turns to look at Bond, tracing the sharp edges of his jaw with his eyes.

“Being disrespectful to a superior is even worse, _Commander_.” McDougall answers back, raising his chin as though sending a reminder of who they're dealing with.

“Not when being logical is the obvious path to follow.” The wrinkles around Bond’s lips curve as he smiles and adds, “ _Sir_.”

McDougall's eyes shoot daggers at Bond, who takes a step forward, shielding Q from the Director of IB is instinctive, the Quartermaster supposes, but the idea of Bond thinking he’s incapable of standing up for himself in a fight is, to say in the least, disappointing. Q might not be a martial arts expert or boxer but he knows a good bunch of self-defense moves Simon, one of his online friends, taught him when they were fooling around at his house.

From time to time, bits and pieces of a brute intellect at MI6 can be spotted in attitudes like McDougall’s, because working for MI6 doesn’t exclude you from being an asshole. He might be his superior, but Bond’s menacing frame and icy cold eyes that could stop a train dead on its tracks, are far more convincing than a military title in an argument. Besides, Bond’s problem with authority is already well known. Another colorful note on his profile is not going to make such a big difference.

“Be careful, Bond. You’re walking on fire and your feet are already burnt,” warns, lifting a finger to him, never breaking eye contact and then turns to leave. Q shifts nervously.

“You know. I appreciate the display of courage to protect those in need.” The Quartermaster tilts his head and narrows his eyes. “But I have my good share of resources to handle individuals like him.”

“I don’t care. He’s out of line.”

Q could go with ‘I can take care of myself’ speech but it seems like a waste of oxygen. Yet, deep inside, he admits he liked it. He liked seeing someone else defending his work. Or showing respect to his position despite his young age and the implications of his performance at such a job. Especially in a place where politics and power run like currency at a bank.

“I’ll see you around, double oh seven,” he says, giving his back to the older man.

“Does he beat you?”

Q stops dead in his tracks and turns to look at him. The agent doesn’t meet his gaze.

“What?” Puzzled, the quartermaster returns to Bond’s side.

“Your boyfriend. Is he beating you?” he asks again. This time, Bond’s eyes focus on a certain spot at Q’s neck. He raises his hand and runs his thumb down Q’s jugular, tracing with his fingertip the shape of a light purple mark showing over the edge of his collar.

 _Of course he’s seen it._ And of course he’d make a stupid joke like that. Because it’s Bond we’re talking about here. The man who has special x-ray powers to make you feel exposed to anything.

Q spent most of the morning trying different shirts to cover the hickey but no piece of garment was going to hide the dark circle in its totality. But he had to try. And it was working real well until, well. Until double oh seven did what he knows best: reading people.

The agent’s attention diverts from his finger to meet the young man’s eyes as his thumb moves upwards, resting on Q’s cheek, the rest of his fingers barely touching his neck.

The Quartermaster's brow softens and tries to force his eyelids from falling half-lidded. In that moment he doesn’t know what’s hotter, his cheek or Bond’s palm against his skin but he doesn’t care about such trivialities right this second. Bond’s thumb is so close to Q’s mouth that it would take just a heartbeat to wet it with his lips.

He’s brave, Q has to admit. They are standing in the middle of a public corridor filled with cameras from start to end and people are coming and going constantly. And yet, Bond finds no objection with displaying such body language in the open, compromising the integrity of his position and Q’s with the SIS. But there's only so much the Quartermaster can tolerate so he decides to end it.

“I have work to do.”

Q jerks from his grasp and starts walking away the end of the hallway. His legs begin moving faster as he walks, and they keep moving on their own, without the certainty of an exact destination. At some point, he’s almost running even as he scales entire staircases. It doesn’t matter where they might lead or how many they are. He just keeps going, escalating into the nothing itself and so he goes, climbing level after level unaware of how long he’s been moving from one place to another. He can see a sea of faces staring at him and ignoring him at the same time, but he can’t truly register anyone or anything at all. At some point, the path ends and he stops. His hair falls and curls around the frames of his glasses and the usually immaculate shirt he dons and tie are a disarranged mess. He recognizes the door leading to the terrace in front of him. The Quartermaster rests his forehead against the cold metal and closes his eyes, panting.

His knees finally give in and he falls, defeated. The young man turns and rests his back against the door, bending his knees closer to his chest. His stare gets lost at the end of the corridor he’s just walked and a fire starts creeping up in his chest. His sight blurs and his stomach is so twisted with the rush of adrenaline he feels the vomit coming at any second. Q lifts his hand and presses his palm over his cheek, where Bond’s thumb laid a few minutes ago. With a pang in his heart, Q shuts his eyes.

_Not again._

…

“Who’s Bond?”

Q stops typing on his laptop and turns to look at John, who is leaning against the light gray wall at the back of his bed. The Quartermaster’s glad that John actually decided to stay at Q’s house instead of his apartment because the trip from John’s house to his place and then to MI6 was going to be a pain in the ass during rush-hour.

“Huh?”

“Bond. You said that name in your sleep.”

 _Shit._ It’s been a while since he’s shared a bed with someone for more than one night for anyone to catch on that habit. Q talks in his sleep when he’s under intense stress and most of the time it’s just incoherent babbling but apparently, the name of double oh seven was heard clearly.

“When?” the young man inquires, making his best effort to sound casual.

“Last night.”

“He’s… no one, really.”

“No one important enough to call him in your sleep? Correct.” Ballard laughs softly, turning his attention back to the tv and switching channels with the remote.

“He works with me. We’re in a project together.” Q bites his lower lip, moving his leg on the bed to keep himself balanced as he turns to Ballard. “Must be the stress,” he says, not very convincingly and then returns his attention to the laptop’s screen. He’s trying his best not to sound defensive, but he can’t help it sometimes. It’s like an act of reflex when he feels he’s being pushed around with an answer.

“Seriously, do you often talk about your colleagues in your sleep like that?” John asks with a chuckle, running his hand up and down the whole length of Q's spine.

“Really, he’s just someone I know.”

“He works with you. Is he an agent?”

The Quartermaster distracts himself from his laptop’s screen again and turns to Ballard, making a face at the insistence of the questioning. “And why should I give you that kind of information?”

“ _He is!_ Well, I always wanted to meet a secret agent.” Just then, the man sits up, straightening his back and his eyes are wide open. “Wait! He’s the bloke at the lobby? The one who wanted to rip me to shreds with his eyes?”

Q laughs nervously and shakes his head. “You ought to stop reading spy fiction, you know?”

Ballard bites his lower lip and rests his back against the pillows. “He’s into you, isn’t he?”

“Will you stop making assumptions about my co-workers?” Q requests, looking over the top of his specs with an amused expression.

“Well, forgive me for being good at observing people, but either I was born with scales on my face and I haven’t noticed until now, or he wanted me six feet under for the mere fact that I was with you.” John smiles, sliding his fingertips just an inch under Q’s t-shirt.

“And why is that important, to begin with?” the Quartermaster asks, holding his gaze.

The corners of Ballard's lips curve downwards and shrugs. “Because it amuses me to see members of the SIS cast in a Mexican soap opera of sorts.”

The Quartermaster laughs at this wholeheartedly and bends forward, hiding his face against the laptop’s keyboard. His mind makes a crazy trip picturing Bond with a black, thick moustache, Tanner with a poncho, Moneypenny serving enchiladas and M, being the head of a drug cartel. “You should be a writer, really,” he manages to say, trying to catch his breath. 

“Hm.” Ballard leans forward and puts the laptop cover down, closing it and almost trapping Q’s fingers in the process. He grabs it and places it on the floor at the same time that his large body hovers on Q’s form, confining him under his weight. The surgeon removes the Quartermaster’s glasses with a hand and places them upon the nightstand. His free hand travels south to the young man’s belly. “So, tell me. Do I have competition here?”

“No. He’s…” The Quartermaster’s voice trails off when he feels Ballard’s fingers around his shaft and his mouth against his neck. Q's mind is becoming foggy having a pair of hands tempting his body and it becomes nearly impossible to switch gears “I… better shower.”

“Let’s do that.”

“Really, I have to get up at 5 tomorrow.” The Quartermaster forces himself up and gently removes himself from Ballard’s strong grip, who, with a sigh, releases his partner’s thin frame from his grasp.

“Long day playing Big Brother?” the other man asks, resting his weight on his side on the bed.

“Very.” Q opens the third drawer of clothes and takes a clean pair of boxers. He opens the laptop to close his session and Ballard’s palm interrupts him, resting on top of his over the keyboard.

“I’ll check some mail. Mind if I use your laptop?”

Q grins and points to a stack of laptops over his desk. “I do, actually. Grab the red one. That’s safe.”

“Brilliant.” Ballard hops from the bed and extracts the red VAIO laptop from the pile of five on top of Q’s desk. Q keeps some to use them as servers sometimes, others for gaming only and the rest just for the fond memories attached to them. He’s not a pack rat, but some things are hard to get rid of.

Q steps in the shower and shakes his head as the water splashes his shoulders, washing the tiredness of the day away. He'd been waiting for this moment of solitude all day and now he can finally organise his thoughts in private and get lost in them. One by one, he peels the layers of unnecessary importance he’s been piling these last days until the only in relevance stands, separated from the rest: the panic attack at MI6. He hadn't had one since he broke up with Hugh and the appearance of a new one perturbed him. There’s nothing new, work related, that he hasn’t faced yet to force him into such state of nervous breakdown, so MI6’s discarded. His relationship with Ballard is not something that should ring any alarm at all. As a matter of fact, he’s quite content with the way things are progressing without holding too many expectations. Ballard is a pretty simple man, rather cultured and easy to talk with. He voices his opinions but they don’t differ much from Q’s, or at least that’s what the Quartermaster believes. He shows a basic interest in Q’s well being but he doesn’t attempt to invade him too much, like forcing him into a joint date with Q’s sister and his brother-in-law or anything of that nature. Q’s nights with him consist in a quiet routine of a simple chat about John’s patients, like Ms. Dargory and her insistence on presenting her granddaughter to him. But it’s mostly about Ballard asking him if he killed someone at work (he insists on this, even if he’s told him about the nature of his work environment) or if he’s after some international criminal from an exotic land, which is kind of odd but almost… cute in its own naïve way. Then it’s dinner and of course, sex. So far, John’s taking this lightly, so it’s not him.

So in the end, everything points in only one direction.

It’s not like he’s _breaking up_ with Bond, because nothing started to begin with. Q’s been doing a decent job so far in compressing the fragments of fondness kept inside him, and pushing them to a dark, safe corner in his head where they can’t cause any harm. Like putting everything in a small mental box and storing it. It’s part of a methodic process of self-cleansing in order to give prevalence to the task he’s been given at MI6, a position many could only dream of and he’s won with honors. And that demands his utmost attention and capacity. He knows about other employees having romantic relationships with the personnel. He would probably go ahead and give it a green light if he attempted to do the same, but he can’t trick himself into believing that dating a random IT worker equals dating Bond. Because he cannot be compared to anyone at MI6. Or anyone, for the matter, including of course, Ballard. He enjoyed his nights with double oh seven from beginning to end but those are miles away from the moments of relaxation he shares with John. Perhaps it was the locale. Q thought about bringing John to The Red Lion but he was afraid he’d find him there, sitting at their table having a pint alone and looking out at the window. Or even worse, maybe he would find him sharing dinner with someone new.

_A replacement._

The young man rests a wet palm against the tiles of the shower and stares at the chromes of the handles against the wall. There’s an invisible thin thread still linking him to Bond and he wishes he had the right tool to cut it, but so far all his attempts have been vain. Bond’s holding a loose string around Q’s neck but whenever he attempts to escape, the material is so strong that it suffocates him. He hates it. Yet, he almost likes it in some sick, twisted way.

Q pours some shampoo on his palm and rubs his hair with both hands in slow circles. He wants to talk with Sarah, because she's the only human he trusts to listen to his intimate thoughts. But he's not sure if he wants to bring Bond into the conversation. He knows his sister is going to immediately realize there’s something wrong with him the minute he starts talking in circles without any direction or focus. He’s positive she’ll notice if he doesn’t show interest in talking about John. Something he’d probably do in a normal situation, but he’s sure he won’t, because he doesn’t have a crush on John and he’s not even remotely in love with him. He’s a nice man, but…  

The mechanisms of self-boycotting have worked perfectly before with other men, so what’s failing now? What could have triggered such a reaction? What kind of thing happened, harsh enough to make him collapse like a puppet whose strings were cut? Bond didn’t verbally or physically abuse him moments prior to the panic episode. In fact, he had been civil in standing up for him, something no one else he knew at MI6 would dare _attempt_ to do with Callum McDougall, the short-tempered head of Defense Branch and a man of heavy influence over the hierarchical personnel of SIS. Bond had been nice. He had put himself in the line of fire for the Quartermaster, and for some reason that scared Q. Why is this small action affecting him so much to the point of altering his health? Is it because Bond lowered his barriers that fateful night for him alone? Because double oh seven wants him for a reason Q can’t pin point but is apparently strong enough to persist on his chase? Is Q putting too much weight on that lame attempt of considering something serious with the man he knew would never compromise at anything? No. Then why is Q’s body reacting defensively against his own determination to erase Bond forever and go back to his normal life? Bond’s different, yes, that has been established already. He’s not even dashing according to the Quartermaster’s standards of beauty, especially with that ridiculous mouth and that thing he does, parting his lips and reminding him of a freaking duck, for fuck’s sake. Bond likes to pretend he's this top class man driving expensive cars and travelling around the world in constant danger when deep inside, he’s just a bloke who has a fascination, yes, _a fascination_ with bizarre topics like the discovery of a dog with two heads in Sussex. It has nothing to do with any of it, no. Bond’s not the first man in his life or the last.

Bond’s just the man he’s stupidly in love with.

…

Luck doesn’t prove to be in MI6’s favor the following morning. The images from the surveillance cameras show police officers redirecting the curious eyes of passerby’s away from the crime scene and some forensics grabbing a smoke nearby.

Inside the flat at Fouberts Place, a body had been discovered; Roger Cowan is dead.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some references about real scenarios/institutions/etc:
> 
> * General Register Office: is the name given to the civil registry in England and Wales, Scotland, many other Commonwealth nations and Ireland.  
> * The name of the Defense Branch's Head, Callum McDougall, comes from the executive producer of "Skyfall." ;)


	9. Chapter 9

“Cardiopulmonary arrest induced by an atropine overdose.”

Sitting cross-legged on his chair, the Quartermaster slides the window with Roger Cowan’s forensic file on top of the CCTV footage of the apartment on the main screen. Not too far from his spot, Bond observes resting his back against the wall and Eve stands next to Tanner, who’s holding two folders. Gareth Mallory watches the progression of the report from the end of the large table of the meeting room they’re occupying.

“There are two other apartments connected with that door and according to the movement shown in the surveillance cameras we can deduce all the occupants of the complex arrived at around 7-8 p.m. corresponding with regular office work schedules.” Q fast-forwards the tape until he singles out a specific man. He’s wearing heavy, black beret coat that covers part of his face and what looks like leather gloves. “This is the only subject who left the building after a ten minute gap. Presumably the killer.”

“Anything on him?” asks M, scratching his forehead and leaning back on the thin black chair.

“Nothing. All the snapshots provided for facial recognition are partial.” Q shakes his head and sighs. “I’ll keep working on it, though.”

“Surely connected to our African friends,” adds Bond, leaving the wall and approaching Q’s chair.

“Can’t confirm until I get a good look at him. I can build his face gluing the bits and pieces but it will take a while.”

“Who found the body?” Eve peeks at Tanner’s folders and the man flips a page. He moves his finger down the printed text, following the names of the witnesses with his eyes.

“Nigel Pinfield, the flat’s owner,” answers Q with a nod. “He claims to have no knowledge of this man's existence. Nor does he recall giving out a spare key.”

“So he was hired to deliver papers and die? Doesn’t sound like a good deal.”

“Apparently.”

“There was a clear motivation involving money behind this. Twenty thousand pounds were deposited in his bank account.” Tanner lifts three pages and reads. “He probably did it for his kids due to the precarious economical situation of his family.”

“Hardy relevant for the case.” M interrupts and turns to face double oh seven. “The papers. We need them.”

“How should we proceed, sir?” inquires Tanner, closing the black folder against his chest. “Without Mardling’s knowledge?”

“Indeed.”

Moneypenny purses her lips and tilts her head in M’s direction. “Bond could go at night, fool security and snatch the documents.”

 “The offices are under constant surveillance but the level of security for a common building like this is... suspicious, to say the least.” Q spreads a floor map on screen where Ruth Mardling’s office is located and several blinking red dots indicate the men guarding the corridors and their work shifts. He licks his lips and turns to look at Bond straight in the eye. “I could help with the neutralization of security. I have something that could come handy in this situation.”

Bond remains silent for a moment staring back. Q ponders about how awkward this scene must be for the rest of the people around them at the moment. Double oh seven finally breaks eye contact and turns his attention to Mallory. “I’m ready to go.”

“Good. Begin with the preparations and keep me informed,” says M, addressing Tanner. The other man nods in acknowledgment.

 _Betrayal?_ Thinks Q as he watches Bond leave afterwards, Bond sporting one of Q Branch's toys to fulfill his task. The agent certainly knew from the start that the relationship with Ruth Mardling was never going to be a bed of roses. Perhaps he didn’t intend to start anything with her and then, something made him change his mind about it. Could she be enough to break the vicious circle to which he submits himself every time a woman is involved?

…

“This will take only minutes.”

Several cameras are on display on the large screen showing the most relevant angles of the path double oh seven must go through to reach Mardling’s office. To facilitate things, Q’s decided to record two minutes of every camera at the same time to play on loop, trick the security office and cover Bond’s movements in the building. He quickly types the coding to install and set up the program he created months ago for such a purpose, including the masking of his intrusion, the detection of the selected cameras and the precise range of minutes he’ll be using.

A new screen shows up with the main control panel and he types the command to start recording. After two minutes, the process ends.

“Ready whenever you are,” Q informs, leaning closer to the circular speaker on top of his desk. The agent nods and heads towards the parking lot entrance of Broadgate Tower, which is made of glass and zigzag-shaped steel columns on each face. The Quartermaster starts running the recordings on loop, covering Bond’s movement with ease.

Double oh seven takes one of the elevators and opens the box with the gloves Q Branch has provided. They look like regular gloves but the fabric is impregnated with chloroform that could knock a man down within seconds. He previously rubbed some of the oil that neutralizes the effect on him and he puts the gloves on. He adjusts the sound suppressor on the Walther PPK and looks at the numbers of the floors as the elevator moves. Bond makes a stop one level below destination. The doors open and a massive guard reaches for a gun under his coat, but with two long strides, the agent’s hand covers the other man’s mouth who faints without protest. He finishes him with one shot in the head. He’s been seen at Mardling’s office before. He can’t leave any witnesses behind.

Bond hides near a doorframe. “How many left?”

“Two. One at your left, the other at your right, four meters ahead around the corner,” the Quartermaster informs. Tanner is at his side, supervising the activity.

Bond dodges the first punch of guard number two and kneels before grabbing his face. From that position, Bond takes the gun from underneath the unconscious guard's jacket, removes the magazine in one quick movement and throws the empty revolver at guard number three’s knees with such force that he forces the man to double over in reflex; an opportunity Bond uses to put a bullet right into the guard’s nape.

“I’m going up,” Bond says as he climbs the stairs leading to the level above. He stops, lays down over a few steps under the floor level and waits, like a crouching tiger ready to strike. “How many?”

The Quartermaster studies the map and answers. “Four.” He frowns and takes a deep intake of breath. “Make it quick.”

“That’s the idea. Thank you for your input.”

He reaches the level and aims to the fat guard in a dark gray suit. If Q’s calculations are correct, Bond has only four rounds left, one for each guard. He swallows and bites the corner of his lips. _This is Bond, he knows what he’s doing. Stop worrying like a ridiculous girlfriend,_ the Quartermaster thinks.

After the first guard’s been disabled, double oh seven takes down the other one who doesn't have enough time to react. The two men at the end of the corridor shoot and the agent ducks; the bullets hit the wall at his back and that’s unfortunate, because the mission was going on wheels but now the sounds of the shooting surely alarmed the rest of the security men. Bond straightens up and takes both down. His shooting skills are controlled and quick.

Double oh seven has only a couple minutes before security replacements arrive and discover the fallen guards lying in the corridors. Bond makes it to Mardling’s office and easily forces the door open. Though the room is dark, Bond moves as though it's brilliantly lit.

Q enables the office’s cameras and watches as the agent steps towards the desk, his silhouette visible from the city lights outside. A rustle of papers can be heard from Bond’s earpiece. “Got them.” He inspects the documents and pauses. Withdrawing a customized mobile phone from his pocket, the man uses it to highlight each page enough for quick perusal.

Distracted by the movement, Q draws his attention to the real live footage of the security cameras. Two men are descending from the floor above, guns in hand.

“They’re coming. Bond. _Bond!_ ” the Quartermaster calls. Tanner bites his lower lip.

“I’ve heard you,” Bond answers and ducks the first bullet that passes centimeters away from his head. He hides behind the woman’s desk and changes the magazine of the Walther as fast as he can. He leans down and he can see their feet moving through the short space left between the floor and the wooden desk. With the precision of a cold-blooded assassin, Bond disables his opponents.

He takes the elevator and leaves the building using the same path as he entered, exiting through the parking lot. He runs down Norton Folgate road, heading towards the narrow path of Fleur De Lis Street with its bricked walls painted with graffiti.

Once the Bond’s out of potential danger, Q’s breathing returns to its normal rhythm. He shakes his head with the embarrassment of this. He stops the loop footage and the rest of the guards discover the bodies and the forced entry into the woman’s office. Fortunately, Bond has made his exit; he drives away as the nearby buildings reflect the first rays of dawn.

…

“Shit…”

It’s almost nine in the morning and the tension in his shoulders and calves are making Q prisoner to an unbearable pain, distracting him from double oh five’s mission. Which is something the Quartermaster detests. He's been giving special attention to this agent's mission because their relationship hadn't started all that well. Q had fucked up a meeting in Cairo with his appointed contact, and he almost got the agent killed by a Sudanese street gang. Q has the impression that double oh five brushed off the incident but Q wanted to make sure not to repeat his mistakes with a man who's routinely risking his life for Queen and Country. Whenever the agent is out in the field, instead of leaving the details to his subordinates as it generally happens, Q personally coordinates and double checks everything to be sure of the reliability of the sources and contacts for every mission. He feels responsible for his previous failure with Double oh five and won’t allow himself to commit such dangerous mistake ever again.

Q’s body is protesting but he knows it won’t get prettier if he ignores it; his body had demanded a change from his sedentary lifestyle, so he leaves Charles in charge and heads to the gym. The gym is open to only SIS personnel, but few, apart from agents, actually utilize it.

He grabs a spare pair of pants, t-shirt and sneakers and looks at himself in the dresser’s mirror with a bit of disgust, seeing the obvious differences between his body and the clothes which are meant for someone with a larger build than his. The track pants are a bit loose at the waist and pretty large, covering the top of his sneakers. It’s not that he’ll trip over while walking but, oh well. The biggest contrast is the t-shirt, which was the smallest size available, made for someone evidently larger and more muscular fit. The collar is so wide that it almost reaches the top of his clavicles.

He walks to the treadmills slowly like a cat stepping into a territory populated by expecting dogs ready to bite him. _Hello there, no, I’m not going to kill anyone with my glasses. Nice pair of guns you got there. Get out of the closet, mate. No, I didn’t get lost, I’m actually going to do something here_ , he mentally comments to the subjects as he passes by them. He receives some curious glances and greeting nods to which he replies with equal ones out of courtesy.

The view is nice. The treadmills are facing the Thames, with its ferries and tourists taking pictures of the sights. He begins walking and his legs quickly get warmed up enough to start trotting. Running always helps clear his mind. The only thing he has to do is concentrate on his breathing and that’s it, the toxic worries in his head automatically disappear leaving his mind blank. And sometimes his thoughts drift to the most unusual places.

For example:

_Why do women menstruate in blue in advertisements? Why not green?_

_How profitable is the glass industry?_

_Why_ _do stewardesses decide their career?_

He wonders what kind of psychological motivation could drive a woman to engage in an activity that’s obviously related to a need to escape reality, masked with the excuse of travelling the world. Attachment problems with their families is certainly another thought that crosses his mind. He tries to imagine how it feels like having a wife/lover/mother always absent. Always at the risk of not returning home safe and sound. This thought, of course, fueled by Q’s fear of putting his life into the hands of a bunch of mortals commanding a structure as fragile as paper against the odds of the forces of nature and even worse, human miscalculation and error.

His sight gets lost in the soft ripples of the Thames below. He’s curious about what would happen if he was in such a situation, having a loved one in constant danger and away for several weeks, even months. And without realization, an unwanted association crosses his mind.

_What good could that bring to him having someone like that?_

…

“Good work, double oh seven,” greets Q as the man enters Q Branch. The agent returns his greeting with a quick smile and a nod. M, Eve and Tanner are waiting, along with the rest of the personnel at headquarters working on the other agents' missions around the world.

Their fingers briefly touch as Bond delivers his cellphone to the Quartermaster, lingering just a bit against the young man’s hand. Nervously, Q nods and plugs the phone to his laptop to download the pictures taken at Mardling’s office.

M rubs his index and thumb together as he watches the pages pass on the screen. There are formulas and descriptions and explicative paragraphs every now and then.

“Yes. This… looks like the manufacturing process of diamonds. But…” Q starts, trying to make sense of the figures and he pauses, taking a moment to absorb the information. “I need some time to study this. It doesn’t look quite right.”

“How so?”

“I… think, and I’d like to corroborate this, that this process is incomplete.” The young man points to the screen and maximizes one of the photographs. “See, they use the CVD method but-“

“CVD?” asks Eve, raising an eyebrow.

“Chemical Vapor Deposition. It’s a technique for the process of mass production of high-quality diamond crystals. Now, the most used is HPHT and…” The Quartermaster suspects that he’s the only one who did some research on the topic before hand, and that the rest of the people in the room are clueless about the terminology. He turns around, confirming his suspicions as they stare at him silently. “High Pressure, High Temperature,” he explains and sighs deeply before continuing.

“In HPHT, there are three main press designs used to supply the pressure and temperature necessary to produce synthetic diamonds. Whereas the mass-production of these crystals make the HPHT process the more suitable choice for industrial applications, the flexibility and simplicity of CVD setups are translated into the attractiveness of CVD growth in laboratory research. CVD’s method uses a process in by which diamonds can be grown from a hydrocarbon gas mixture.”

“So this can be connected to information in the discs?” asks M.

“Indeed. I’m not sure but I believe this is only a part of the study.” Q turns around again facing the screens and continues. “There’s something new here. Instead of the hydrocarbon mix, they use something that’s called…” the Quartermaster centers the image on a single word, “Micosaxum.”

“This… Micosaxum is part of the newly discovered minerals?” asks Tanner with a hand gesture.

The Quartermaster nods. “The mix is apparently created after the fusion of those minerals. Here’s a list of them.” His fingers move over the touchpad of the laptop, passing the photos in groups of six snapshots each. “Now, the substrate preparation includes choosing an appropriate material and its crystallographic orientation; cleaning it, often with a diamond powder to abrade a non-diamond substrate; and optimizing the substrate temperature which is… at about 800 °C, during the growth through a series of test runs.” Q pauses and diverts his attention to M who’s listening with visible interest. “With Micosaxum, the optimization only takes 300ºC for the same quantity.”

“Which suggests less energy consumption in larger quantities,” adds Bond, one hand in a trouser pocket.

Q can’t restrain himself from curving the corners of his reddish lips upwards with satisfaction. Finally, someone is keeping up with his explanation, and what a pleasant surprise it is to find out Bond’s the one doing it. “Exactly.” The older man answers with a ghost of a smile of his own. “But this is a partial report. There’s information missing here. For example, what will they do to avoid contamination from the silica windows of the growth chamber used for the process? Something that is a vital concern to be taken seriously with a regular hydrocarbon gas mixture.” He pauses and bites his lower lip. “And if we’re talking about new minerals here, there should be at least a mention of a study that explores this stage of the process.”

“So, they need the rest of the information on the discs in Tokyo and Dubai?” Moneypenny suggests.

“Precisely.”

“And the investors?”

“I suppose they went fishing and are waiting to see who takes the bait and enters the game,” the Quartermaster answers with a head tilt and raises both eyebrows, speculating.

“Good news is, they don’t have the right elements to start the production,” M says as he stands up. “This will give us some time to trace the forces behind this and cut their plans.”

Q nods and saves the photos onto the server. He will make three copies later that he’ll store at the vault and Q Branch’s vault.

“So, shall we wait until she gets in touch again with the group behind this?” asks Moneypenny, clasping her hands together against her lap.

“She’s the only link to them, since Cowan’s dead,” answers Bond, to which M agrees with a nod.

Mallory stands from his chair. “Pay her a visit tomorrow afternoon, double oh seven. Let the waters cool because I’m positive there will be too much movement in the morning with tonight’s events. Keep a channel open.”

The agent nods and Tanner takes notes about the directives. Walking into Broadgate Building with the blood of the cadavers still warm would make it look suspicious. Mardling has become essential to the investigation and she is to be handled with special care. Q is sure that in other circumstances, she could be treated as nothing else than a pawn to be used in their strategy to conquer MI6’s goal. But he is suspicious about Bond’s lack of insistence on putting pressure on her, dwelling into the questioning of her activities related to the diamond’s investments. Bond cares about her. Simple as that.

…

_“You love me?”_

_Bond’s expression is unreadable, but enough to catch her attention. “Enough to quit and float around with you, until one of us has to get an honest job. Think it will have to be you, I don’t think I know what an honest job is.”_

_The woman is no longer playing the game. She turns Bond’s head towards her and looks into his eyes._

_“You’re serious.”_

_“Like you said, you do what I do and there won’t be any soul left to salvage. I’m leaving with what little is left of mine. It’s that enough for you?”_

_She smiles, deeply touched, and reaches for him._

_“Yeah…”_

_Not so long after, double oh seven’s expectations sank as if the Yacht they’ve sailing on had holes filled with betrayal, covered with fragile lies keeping it floating. M explained the situation later, and then he rebuilt the same walls he lowered for her. His heart died back then a little more with that elevator in Venice. And the void Vesper Lynd carved in him would haunt him forever._

…

Twenty past six.

Sarah’s late. But with the regular congestion at the tube, a delay is certainly expected. Her car is at her favorite mechanic’s right now, getting fixed after a scare with weird noises that Mike supposes must be related to the transmission. She’s not the cautious type but her boyfriend is, so there was no argument when he took the car away and left her to the mercy of public transportation.

Q checks his watch and anxiously taps his left hand against his thigh. From the corner of his eye he notices someone’s staring at him from headquarters's main entrance. It’s Bond, having a conversation with a woman and staring straight in the Quartermaster’s direction, which gives him the impression that he’s not interested in the chat or the woman’s attention at all. Double oh seven exchanges a couple of words with her and leaves, approaching Q.

“For a man who’s a fan of punctuality, I’m surprised you haven’t acquired a car yet.”

“Oh, I just love to put my life in the hands of strangers,” Q jokes frowning.

“Expecting someone?”

The Quartermaster sighs and takes a moment to consider if he has to actually answer the question or divert the conversation somewhere else. He will have to answer and if he lies, Bond will surely notice it. From the little knowledge Q has of the man, he can tell. The young man chooses the first option. “My sister,” he finally says, meeting Bond’s glance and pressing his lips together with a smile.

“Oh.” Bond looks away and idly rubs the tip of his tongue against a molar. And good God, there’s something in that tongue and its potential uses against human skin that’s taking over Q’s attention. _Out of the gutter. Now_ , he mentally commands himself.

Thankfully, Sarah’s crossing Albert Embankment road and is heading towards them waving a hand. The young woman has her long brown wavy hair tied in a ponytail and is wearing a purple cardigan her brother gave her as a Christmas present some years ago.

“Sorry I’m late, love. It’s a jungle out there. The tube was so crowded that at some point I couldn't feel my feet touching the ground. Mad.” The cheerful woman greets him and after some moments of silence she turns her attention to the man standing by her brother’s side, waiting for a proper presentation. But Q doesn’t want to grant her the chance.

“It’s okay. Let’s go.” Q clears his throat and nods pointing towards the street, visibly uncomfortable with Bond’s presence.

His sister, quick and perceptive grabs her brother’s arm and offers a bright smile to the agent. She tilts her head, studying him. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Sarah. El-…” Sarah shakes her head and corrects herself. “Q’s sister,” she says, offering her free hand to the older man.

“Bond, James Bond. A pleasure.”

“Oh.” The young woman shakes his hand and looks pensive for a second, lifting her chin. “ _Oh_ ,” she says after a brief pause. “Nice to meet you, James.”

Q wishes the ground would split in two and be swallowed them into the deep confines of the Earth. He’d mentioned Bond to Sarah before.  And of _course_ Sarah is exactly the type of person to never forget such a detail as that. Q thought the mention was brief, idle, just in passing, a whingy complaint about a 40-year-old man but now that he thought back to it: he had been parroting on about Bond for bloody _ages_. Even now, as Q sits, feeling distinctly uncomfortable and wary, he has come to one nasty conclusion: Sarah certainly hasn’t forgotten Bond’s name and she is going to ruin what could be a perfectly good evening by reminding Q as to exactly _how_ she can annoy him when she decides to do so. Q sighs.

“I’m guessing you two work together?”

“Yes,” answers Bond.

“No,” states Q.

“Okay…” the Quartermaster’s sister raises an eyebrow.

“Well… technically no. I mean, yes. He works here but in another area,” Q tries to explain, scratching the black fabric on his thigh with a hand.

“I see.” Sarah runs her tongue over her upper lip, tilting her head and looking down, processing that information. “Oh! Forgot to tell you. Mike says John's not going to the flat tonight. He says he had an emergency and has some surgery scheduled.” Sarah waves a dismissive hand to double oh seven. “Sorry. John is his boyfriend. My bad.”

Ladies and Gentlemen, Sarah Ainsworth Turner, Queen of subtlety. Definitely as subtle as a kick in the teeth. The Quartermaster raises a hand to rub the bridge of his nose and momentarily hide his eyes in shame. He saw it coming. A pity Q wasn’t fast enough to drag his sister away to prevent this disaster. Bond nods and chuckles, evidently amused.

“Fine. Well, let’s…” Q tries once more to get his sister out of there.

“Do you have anything to do now?” Sarah inquires.

Bond immediately reacts to the woman’s inquiry. “No. Not really.”

“Join us for tea, then?” she beams.

“Sarah…” Q tightens the grip on his sister’s arm harder.

“Of course.” Bond’s eyes never leave hers.

“Brilliant!” The young woman tightens her grip on her brother’s arm, urging him to shut his mouth up.  

“I’ll get the car.”

“Fantastic.”

Bond turns away from them and heads towards the parking lot. Embarrassed as all hell, Q puts his hands on either side of his face, absolutely horrified at what can only be a prelude to a catastrophe. He wants and, most importantly, _needs_ to talk to Sarah alone. It's his sister, for Christ's sake. The hours of planning and setting for this date are going to waste with Bond's almost annoying interruption. It seems like the man has taken into the habit of dismantling his routine and invade his personal time, in one way or another. Or perhaps Q is the one putting too much importance in Bond's behavior. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what, love?”

“This. Don’t play innocent, Sarah. You know who he is.”

“Oh, that’s him then? _That_ Bond? I see.” Her faked innocence, of course, sounds ludicrous.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? I’m trying to cut relations with this man. I have enough seeing him every single day and now you’re… inviting him for tea. What is wrong with you?”

“I just want to know him. Is that too much to ask?”

Q bites his upper lip and shakes his head with frustration. “Why?”

“Because I feel like doing so?”

“Seriously. Make up some excuse, that Michael called or… that you have to go to your hairstylist.”

“I don’t have a hairstylist…”

“Well, make up one, for God’s sake!” Q nearly shouts, his nostrils flaring, losing his temper. 

“Ely, you need to calm down. I just want a chat. That’s all.”

“Sarah.” Q takes a deep intake of breath, forcing himself to calm down, and he grabs his sister by her shoulders, looking at her straight in the eye. “Are you aware that you are not helping me here?”

“Would you me let judge that by myself?” she answers with an unnerving smile.

Q doesn’t have a chance to answer because the black Aston Martin’s parking a few meters away from them. Sarah sits at the passenger seat and Q sits in the back, making his best effort to ignore Bond’s eyes in the rearview mirror. Q folds his hands on his lap and he feels they’ll never reach The Tea House in Covent Garden. He distracts himself (and takes the chance to look down) checking e-mails on his cellphone. His sister engages in a lively chat with Bond about the traffic and the moody climate.

“So… mind if I smoke?” asks Sarah, already seated at their table, to which Bond answers with a shake of his head. “Good. How much of a pain in the arse is my brother in a scale from one to ten?”

“Well, I’d generally put him in an average of six. Depends on the day, I suppose.”

“You suppose?” she asks, amused.

“We don’t have much interaction nowadays.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Timing. Work. What do you say?” Bond shifts his attention, resting his elbows on the table.

“Time schedules.” Q answers, reading the menu and not bothering to look up.

“Ah, yes. That too. You could sum it up on communication problems.”

Sarah makes a sound of disapproval clicking her tongue. “That’s a pity. See, he never talks about his coworkers.”

“I’ve told you about Charles,” says Q in his defense.

“Yeah, because he called you for an emergency and you had to fly in the middle of supper.” The young woman holds her cigarette between her long fingers and leans closer to Bond. “He’s always been secretive, you know. Like our dad.”

“And you had to go there.” Q sighs and looks at his sister.

“Go where?”

“Opening your mouth about family business nobody’s truly interested in.”

“And who says I’m not?” adds Bond with a chuckle.

“Hah! See? Oh, thanks.” Sarah moves the pot with violet orchids aside to make space for her tea. “Let’s see. Another family trait… Oh, yes!”

_Oh no._

“He blinks a lot when he’s nervous. Like that time in year six when he had to explain the major organs of the body in front of the class. He rehearsed at home over a thousand times with me even though he knew the lesson from start to end, but he couldn’t keep his eyes open. It was really cute.” Sarah sips on her tea and shrugs a little.

“He still does it.” Bond empties a sugar packet on his tea.

“Really?”

“The first time we met, at the Tate.”

Q’s chest heaves up and down and he scratches the back of his ear. Damn it all. He tried his best to not look anxious and collected at the museum. Bond read him like an open book then. Who is he kidding. 

“Hm.” Sarah takes a long drag of her cigarette and grins. “Always so committed to work, my little brother.”

Q takes a sip of his tea and licks his lips, staring out the window at the cars and passersby hurriedly walking down the street. He could feel Bond's eyes on him. With a piercing stare, Q finally meets Bond's gaze.

“He’s quite transparent.”

There is a long silence and Sarah softly smiles, tapping ashes off the end of her cigarette on the ashtray. “When he wants to, you know. He doesn’t do that very often.”

“I, er, don’t want to interrupt, but I’m still here, in case you didn’t notice.” The Quartermaster raises both eyebrows at his sister.

“Oh, yes. Since you decided to finally join the conversation, why can’t you tell me you have such good friends like him?”

“Because we’re just coworkers.”

“Are we?” Bond retorts.

Q opens his mouth to say something and closes it quickly. Sarah notices that the conversation is cornering her brother and that he is growing uncomfortable. Grinning, she grabs the attention of a waitress passing their table. “Excuse me, can you tell me where’s the loo?”

“By the stairs, on your right.”

“Thank you.” Sarah pushes back her chair and leaves the table. “Will be back in a few, boys.”

Q purses his lips and nods. Bond drums his fingers, meaning he’s still thinking about what he’s going to say next. Q is aware that the following conversation is not going to fall into trivialities such as why he prefers blue over purple in clothes or why his secondary school friends often called him _Gray Matter E_. His sister opened a door and some things that should be dead and silenced by now and will inevitably slide from their dark places. Things that are too personal and not meant for Bond’s ears. She pushed him into this, like she does when she knows her brother must face his fears and deal with an issue that cannot be held back. Like that time when she talked with him about Hugh when he started behaving exceedingly possessive of Q. It doesn’t take too long for Bond to make the first move.

“Do you regret it?”

Q didn’t expect that. “And by regretting you mean…?”

“Us.”

And there are so many implications in that two-letter word. So many things unsaid and there’s a ring to it that feels like someone is grabbing Q's heart and squeezing it tight. Or caressing it. A dichotomy that aches no matter which direction he chooses to follow. Either way he tries to pick the right words to answer but he fails miserably.

“There has never been…”

“No ‘us’ at all. I got the memo. I had to find a way to put it in words.” Bond tilts his head and looks down at the table, like tracing the lines of the wood in its surface with his eyes. “Semantics.”

“Of course.”

“Well?” Bond asks.

“I don’t regret things. I determine the commonsensical path to follow from experiences, particularly those who require special attention such as hormonal behavior that might ruin my career. And the other person’s too, of course.” Q pauses, not blinking once during his speech. “People that regret things are those too reckless to take a moment to look back, consider what’s been done and the real motivations for such action.” The Quartermaster pauses after the verbal diarrhea and sighs. “I do.”

“Clever.” Bond lifts his cup of tea and holds it centimeters away from his lips. “And expected from you.” The agent looks through the window, seemingly interested in the stillness of the cars waiting for the traffic light to change from red to green. “So, are we good?” he unexpectedly blurts out.

Q stares at the man’s tie, avoiding his stare. “I guess.”

“Does it mean that we can go out for a pint, sometime?”

“I suppose, yeah.”

“That’s good.”

“Definitely.”

Naturally, an activity such as that wouldn’t matter to Q. But there are emotions involved that still insist on cracking the clay of his logic and that transforms the prospects of rebuilding a possible relationship, like friendship, into a mine field. With all his might he’d like to possess the power to comply and execute his most trained, gelid attitude on such matter. But he knows he can’t. He’s not naïve to think he’ll be able to go ahead with his plan and pretend everything’s just fine with Bond’s proposal of going out and… relaxing, whenever the older man decides to bring it up. Q knows he’ll have to elaborate believable excuses to reject him, no matter how tempted he is to go back to those nights in Bond's company.

If only he had the strength. _If only._

Moments later, Sarah returns to their table and looks at her wristwatch. “Oops, time to fly, birdies. Mike will be home in an hour and I need dinner ready at eight.”

“I’ll drive you home,” offers Bond.

“That’s very kind of you! You’re a life saver, James.”

They leave Sarah at Warrington Crescent and make their way in absolute silence to Q’s apartment, their breathing the only sound in the air. The night is colder than a couple of days ago and the streets are empty. Bond parks in Mitre road.

“Quite a character, your sister. I like her bluntness. It’s refreshing.”

“Yeah. She has a lot from mum. But I prefer her over my mother a thousand times.” The Quartermaster sighs and rests his back against the seat of the car. “She’s the most important piece of the puzzle of my life, you know.” His head moves to face Bond with a very faint smile. “Did it ever happen to you? Did you ever have someone like that?” Q can’t put a finger on why he asks such a personal question, but it’s out. It’s a simple one, not to be taken as concern.

“Once.” The agent looks at the front, his face suddenly falling into a blank state, empty from emotion, his eyes fixed at a non-existent spot at the end of the road. “She left.”

“I’m sorry.”

Bond shakes his head. “No, no. She died, some time ago. And I couldn’t see it coming. She was…” Bond trails off, frowning. “Someone you could never imagine crossing your path. Someone worth risking everything.”

“Challenging?”

“More than that.” Bond answers flatly. His eyelids slightly fall and he nods. “Someone who could turn your world upside down and give you a proper lesson about what are you doing here. Show you the ridiculous amount of time you have left.” Bond rests his cheek against the head rest of the car. “Worth living for. Worth dying for.”

Q’s Adam’s apple moves as he swallows and locks his hazel irises with Bond’s. He notices the man’s eyes have subtly softened. Q can read some bitterness and sadness in him, and he can’t start to imagine what kind of hardship he must have deal with if he can’t hide under his unaffected state that he regularly shows to the common eye. Something that revived painful memories and the Quartermaster suddenly thinks he has the privilege to see him like that. After what seems like an eternal moment of noiseless understanding, Q asks “Did she know? Did you tell her this?”

“Yes.”

Q breaks eye contact and as he opens the door, Bond says, looking at the wheel, “Meeting your sister was… Good. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Good night.”

“’Night.”

Laying on his bed, Q rubs a palm over his flat belly, staring at the ceiling. He should definitely take a second look at Bond’s file tomorrow, especially the psychological report. Something changed the perception he has of Bond. He can treat him as an object of study now, devoid of emotional interests or that’s exactly, yes, exactly what’s he going to attempt to do to accomplish a… _No_. He can’t keep this stupid game going, pretending something he’ll never achieve with the man he needs in his life like air in his lungs. He has to make an extraordinary effort to bite his pillow and keep his mouth shut and prevent moaning Bond’s name when he’s close to orgasm in bed with John. Q’s palms reach out to rest over his eyes, applying pressure, wishing with all his heart double oh seven could vanish and leave him alone once and for all. Why is his life continuously conspiring against his unattainable, impossible wishes? And now that Sarah met Bond things are going to get ugly. Everything is getting, if possible, more confusing but he’s certain of something.

He’ll never be Bond’s friend.

Not in this lifetime.

_Not ever._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some references about real scenarios/institutions/etc:
> 
> * Broadgate Tower: It's a fairly new building complex in London that gives me some Bond-esque feelings whenever I see a random pic around the web. You can check it out here: http://www.broadgatetower.com/. As usual, the descriptions of the adjacent roads to this place are accurate, such as the graffiti covered walls of Fleur de Lis St. 
> 
> * CVD and HPHT processes: they are real techniques in the production of high-quality diamonds. Further reading material:  
> \- http://www.diamondtraces.com/education-guide/hpht_process.html  
> \- http://www.cvd-diamond.com/synthesis_en.htm
> 
> * Micosaxum: this is the fictional name I gave to the compost. It comes from joining two latin words: "Mico" ('bright') and "Saxum" ('Rock'). Bright rock. Yeah. Brilliant. :P 
> 
> * Bond's and Versper Lynd's flashback scene: the dialogue has been extracted word by word from the script of Casino Royale, which you can find online if you want to read it.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta read by lovely [ishougen.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ishougen/pseuds/ishougen)

_Come, Time, and teach me, many years,_   
_I do not suffer in a dream;_   
_For now so strange do these things seem,_   
_Mine eyes have leisure for their tears._

**_“In Memoriam”  
_ ** _Lord Alfred Tennyson._

 

Today’s the day.

The sun filters through the long eyelashes of the young man as he stares out at the window. One elbow resting in his hand, the other idly rubbing one of his clavicles. The rising sun tickles the soft skin of Q’s belly and he welcomes the warmth after so many freezing nights of London’s winter. His breath fogs the icy window pane.

_He will do it._

The Quartermaster walks away from the sun and picks up the clothes on the bed. It took a while deciding what to wear, because, well, today’s a special occasion after all. After much deliberation, he’s sticking with the silk navy blue shirt, black waistcoat, dark gray tie and black pants with very subtle stripes matching his tie’s colors. Simple and elegant, not too distracting and chosen specifically to contrast against his pale face. He wants his face to be the centerpiece, the focus. Because after days of consideration, Q decided to put an idea that had been drumming around his head into action. A dangerous idea. Something that’s been balancing itself on the edge of the knife of right and wrong. And the origin could be traced back to that afternoon with Sarah and Bond, when a magic word appeared to disturb the tranquility of the young man’s peace of mind.

_“Us.”_

That word. Unspoken from the very beginning of this unexpected affair and banned from Q’s vocabulary for quite a long, long time. That simple pronoun kicked him in the balls when it came out and it’s been imprinting itself all over his skin like a disease. A stupid word that distracted him from his very, very cunning yet ineffective plan of getting Bond out of the picture. Something royally screwed things up when, and in an unwanted turn of events, that simple word planted the seed of temptation and the almost adolescent self-questioning begun. _What if he really wants to have something with me, what would happen if he really meant it like that, what if he’s just testing me, what would it be like if I gave it a chance, what if I say yes, what if he says no, what if, what if, what if._ The infantilism of the questions was almost comical, but unavoidable. And nothing could stop him from thinking about the implications of the concept of _them_ together.

 _“Semantics,”_ said Bond.

Stupid, stupid expression of the English language. 

Q could have turned MI6 upside down in order to gather as much intel as possible about Bond. He could even have accessed the agent’s personal computer. But that would be a nasty form of betrayal and no sane relationship can be built from violating one’s right to privacy. So instead, he copied double oh seven’s basic profile from the SIS database in his laptop and, ever since, he’s been reading it over and over again. Abandonment and emotional issues, impossibility to maintain friendships, no contact with the remaining members of his family, loves to push himself to the limit, strong interpersonal skills but no commitment…

 _A fantastic prospect for a boyfriend,_ Q thought back when he finished reading. He gave the thought an eye roll.

_But still…_

He had wanted to see if any of those subtleties Bond exhibited, the ones only Q had seen, could possibly have been written down. He didn't think so but there it was again: that curiosity. Things he hadn't heard in the office gossip, those little things that tend to be more informative than they appear. Like those houses that seem bigger on the inside. Attitudes, little cracks here and there, tidbits of human-versus-perfection traits, very subtle glimpses of emotions and of course, the cherry on top of the cake: anger after rejection. Morbidity aside, he has to admit he even started loving all those flaws and accept them in a way because it’s Bond.

_It’s just… him._

And before he can continue with that train of thought any further, he has to come to terms with something truly important. He’s been lying to Bond, John and most importantly, himself. One thing is to detach oneself from someone who’s affecting you too much and something very different is ignoring what’s really going on in reality. And Bond’s interest in him is real. Or at least that’s what it looks like. Interest. Nothing more, so far. And this… self-imposed lie is an absurd situation fed by what Q will never, ever, tolerate under any circumstance: insecurity and fear. Thus, the importance of today's upcoming event justifies all the trouble Q went through to prepare himself: as though he were going to war. He wants to give Bond the sensation that he’s being as open and clean as a sheet of paper ready to be written upon. Ready for him.

Q’s going to let him take a peek of the contents of, to express it in banal words, his soul, as hazardous as that sounds and as much as his reserved nature will allow him to do it. In a decidedly brave and stupid way, Q will put himself into the agent’s hands and be at his mercy. Q has had more than enough proof that avoiding Bond is as natural as horse with eight legs. The denial is affecting every hour of his life and he realizes that acting like nothing happens between them is beyond idiotic. You can put yourself on trial and see how much you can sustain a situation for some time, but you can’t expect it to be kept forever untouched. It will be impossible to hide something as complex as this forever. He has to let it out and see what comes of it, even if that means risking a laugh from Bond or a simple pitiful pat on the back.

And now’s the time. He’ll jump into the abyss _and that’s fucking it._    

The risk of discovering what lies beneath and what will bring the knowledge in the aftermath. If this is all simply about sex or there’s a higher motivation for Bond’s interest in him. He has to know and turn the page if things go wrong and move on. He just has to put an end to this no matter what kind of answer will come out of Bond’s mouth _._ And Q will open the doors this time only for Bond to see him like this, even if it goes against his good judgment and reasoning. Q needs to find out if this is finally meant to happen or not, if it's just a simple fling or… something deeper, the young man doesn’t dare wonder. But it’s something he certainly wants to be real.

…

When the Quartermaster puts the _Elizabeth’s Bakery_ bag with recently baked orange flavored scones on top of Charles’ desk, his subordinate thanks him by raising an eyebrow. Food makes people happy. Q is in a happy mood today. Screw formalities.

Q checks the time on his watch and starts setting up the security cameras and level plans of Broadgate Tower, expecting Bond to report at any second. Some minutes later, Tanner shows up. While exchanging reports about double oh five’s actions last night, Tanner tells the Quartermaster with a vibe of pride that the Chief of Staff’s youngest daughter is learning the alphabet at a rather fast speed. With a smile, Q nods at this, holding back the fact that when he was four he already knew how to write “letters” to his Granny with full sentences.

“Double oh seven’s in, sir,” informs Charles, holding the auricular of his phone in hand.

“Put him on speaker.” Q clears his throat and turns to face the wide screen at the front. An automatic smile forms in his mouth. “Good morning, double oh seven. Shall we review your alibi for last night’s activities?”

“’Morning, Q. Go ahead.” Bond’s answer comes with a bit of delay.

“Right.” The Quartermaster throws a glance at Tanner who holds the folder open for the young man to proceed. “From five to six thirty p.m. you’ve been at Cibjo’s offices with Mr. Richard Peplow, member of the board of directors, discussing topics to be treated at the upcoming Congress in Vinceza, Italy.” Q pauses. “Before I continue, where are you?”

“Three blocks away from Broadgate,” answers Bond.

“Correct.” Q selects the cameras displayed from the main entrance to Mardling’s office and sets them ready to follow the agent’s movements. He notices that the blood stains from the dead bodies on the carpets and walls have been cleaned thus erasing last night’s killings. The cleaning staff must have been paid quite a lot of extra to keep their mouths shut and do their work. Q reasons this with a chuckle and continues his communication with Bond. “At seven thirty p.m. you went back to your flat, took a shower and went straight to Cookbook Café located at 1 Hamilton Place where you met with a childhood friend…”

“Female or male?” asks Bond.

The Quartermaster blinks. “M-male?”

“Pity.” There’s pause and a background noise of honking and cars that can be heard before Bond speaks again. “Continue.”

“Right.” Q raises an eyebrow to Tanner who shakes his head and shrugs. “You ordered Grilled Sirloin of Gloucestershire beef, your companion ordered Cannon of Berkshire lamb and both picked Ashford Cox Apple tatin for desert. You paid with your corporate credit card.”

“I don’t like sirloin. I prefer a rib eye steak.”

“I’m… certainly taking notes for next time, sir.” Q answers with a grimace. “There are receipts for everything in the envelope you received last night. It should prove effective in case of need to back up your story.”

“Got it.”

The doors at the crystal tower split open and double oh seven’s slender figure makes his way to the elevators. Q raises his thumb to his lips and bites his nail absentmindedly. He takes on every detail of Bond’s movements inside the elevator. The older man cracks his neck, runs a hand through his blond hair and fixes the collar of his white shirt. Even the tiniest things double oh seven does are suddenly fascinating to the Quartermaster. The young man licks his lips with his eyes fixed on him possessively. Q hums in approval. _Soon, soon._  

And he doesn’t even flinch when Mardling greets Bond in her office with a gentle kiss on his lips, because that will soon be Q's territory to explore in depth, and he’ll take his sweet long time to do so. Double oh seven keeps a hold of her hips as she curls her arms around his neck and a second later, Bond appears to be distracted staring at the wall behind her.

“Redecorating?” he asks, raising both eyebrows.

“Oh, I had visitors last night,” she answers, turning to look at the bullet holes in the wall as well.

The agent loosens his grip on her and eyes her, obviously concerned. “What happened?”

Mardling sighs and leaves his embrace, walking to her desk. “I don’t know, I wasn’t here. But… they told me someone broke in last night and security shot to the wall as a warning.” She opens a drawer at her desk and extracts some papers. “Fortunately, nobody was hurt. He wanted to rob other corporate offices some floors below and apparently got lost.”

The lie, meant to be believable, was not the epitome of perfection but Bond doesn't press for details. It’s just a confirmation that she’s up to something worth hiding, enough to cover the many deaths in the corridors leading to her office.

“We need a background check on her,” says Tanner, addressing an employee at his back.

“Did that already. She’s clean.” Q lifts his mug and sips his tea, nodding to the screen at the front.

“There must be something Bond can do to connect the dots. I don’t think she’d store all this documentation at her place. There must be something in the office. Something in paper like the documents Bond retrieved last night, not in her computer.” Tanner makes a pause and folds his arms over his chest. “We need Bond’s eye right now.”

“Could be a vault under any of those paintings. A hidden drawer.” Q zooms in and the camera moves around the room, searching for any unusual creak on the furniture, a suspicious surface on the wall, anything. He focuses his attention on her desk. A small African wooden idol, a silver pencil holder, a calendar, a table lamp with a green colored vitraux lampshade and a portrait. The portrait is angled just so Q can see it clearly and as soon his eyes fall upon it, he freezes, feeling suddenly short of breath. Q zooms in closer to take a good look at the picture. He raises the level of contrast and the brightness to get a better look and his eyes widen in shock. The Quartermaster blinks several times to confirm his eyes are not betraying him. There’s a man smiling in the photograph.

_It can’t be._

Tanner, noticing that Q has gone exceedingly pale, approaches Q's desk and gazes at the photograph. Shock crosses his face and he glances at the Quartermaster, who has gone very still, his mouth agape. Q's hands shake when he grabs his mobile but he manages to fumble out a hasty text to Bond.

_“Ask her about the man in the portrait.”_

Bond feels his phone vibrating against his thigh and he reaches for it. He unlocks it, reads the text with apparent disinterest and pockets it again. Bond’s expression remains unchangeable. The man rests a hand on Mardling’s desk and tilting his head to the side, he asks cheekily, “I suppose you’re not joining me for lunch?” A sardonic smile plays at the corners of his lips and as he turns abruptly away from her unvoiced rejection, the portrait falls on the polished floor, leaving a tiny crack in the glass. “Oh.”

Mardling smiles and picks up the frame to place it over her desk in its previous position. Bond turns to casually look at it. “Someone I should be concerned about?”

She laughs, but there’s something odd in the sound of it, a mix of sadness and a possible hint of a bitter memory. Mardling’s jovial expression fades a little and uneasiness writes itself across her face. She turns in her chair to face Bond and her voice softens. “He was someone I loved.”

At headquarters, Q tries to regain his breath; his chest is heaving and his throat feels tight. He’s attempting his best to not show how shaken he is. The flood of emotions makes his muscles tense with shock, paralyzed by the man in the photograph. He recognizes his pale ivory skin, the shape of his eyes, his light brown hair, his lips. He knows him. He knows him _too well_. There’s no place left for doubts. _It’s him._ He’s in Ruth Mardling’s photograph. How that's possible is beyond the Quartermaster’s comprehension. Q repeats her exact words in his mind _He was someone I loved_. Someone with whom she had something deeper than a friendship, someone who was something else than a simple acquaintance. Someone important enough for her to keep a portrait in her work place and speak fondly of him. Someone who’s making Q mentally and emotionally shatter like broken glass.  

Bond narrows his eyes, offering a smug smile. “Oh?”

Q’s knuckles are white as he grips the table painfully hard. There’s a loud _piiiiiiiiii_ ringing in his ears and his blood pressure is so high that his blood torrent must be running like a wild mountain river. In the chaos of the Quartermaster’s head, a voice starts reciting the words he’s been carefully gathering and practicing over and over again last night to face Bond. The best speech he could come up with if he was going to talk with double oh seven this morning. And Ruth Mardling keeps talking and everyone at Q Branch can listen into the conversation. Tanner's gaze sweeps from the screen to Q and back and his eyes are transparent with concern.

“We were in love but it was complicated. He passed away some years ago,” she answers, standing up.

At that very instant, Q’s body is drained of all emotion. He’s just a vessel now; empty. Blank. He feels nothing. The emptiness is threatening to consume him. He pays no heed to his surroundings, the noise around him, the people, places, things. The oblivion takes control of him, like his body is some sort of automaton. He’s in autopilot. The contrast between James Bond opening up to Mardling and what Q was going to tell Bond about their relationship flashes in his mind like the opposite lanes of the same highway.

**_Bond. May I have a word with you?_ **

Double oh seven stays silent for some minutes and grins to the woman. “Should I know about someone else in your life?”

**_This will sound confusing, because well, it should be for anyone who’d have to deal with a situation like this. And on top of everything, I’m your Quartermaster. But it's imperative that I talk to you about what we discussed some days ago._ **

“I’m not the only one with secrets. Am I?” Mardling asks with cheeky grin.

**_And that would be... us._ **

Bond considers this. “The trick in secrecy is to never find the right one to uncover them.”

**_You see, I’m not keen on speaking my mind to others or explaining myself because I don’t really owe an explanation to anyone at all. But it's necessary to talk about something that involves us. You and I. And I need this to be clear._ **

The woman approaches, resting a palm over Bond’s arm. “Mine are very deep.”

**_I’m done with your mixed signals. I’m not going to keep on playing this game anymore. I’ve been holding this for too long. And I want to be straight to you. And of course, I wish for you to do the same._ **

Bond leans closer and his lips are inches against her ear. “Sounds like you’re keeping more secrets than I.” She chuckles. Her cheek rests against his and she briefly closes her eyes.

**_I’ve been considering this seriously and I expect you’ll treat it with, at least, respect. What I want to say…_ **

Bond’s curls his arm around her waist closing the space between them. “We shall sort them out sooner or later. Together.”

**_…and I promise there are no hidden meanings or sarcasm or anything that you might think I’m capable of…_ **

“Is that a promise?” Mardling leans back to stare at him, her caramel colored eyes studying his face.

**_Is that I fancy you. More than I should._ **

“It is,” he simply answers.

**_And I’m willing to start something here. I certainly want to give this a chance. I don’t know what kind of… relationship it would entitle. But most importantly, I want to know on what grounds we are standing. I’m not the easiest man in the world but neither are you, so I don’t expect this to be a bed of roses. But I think it’s worth the try. This sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?_ **

“Will you stick with me afterwards?” she asks.

**_Because I don’t want to waste my energy on something that might not even have the same effect on you._ **

“If you’ll reciprocate as well.” Bond cups her cheek with his palm, leaning closer for a kiss.

**_So, I want you to be clear for once and all and if I’m being ridiculous here, I want to know it before I continue any further._ **

The woman curves her lips into a soft smile. “Can’t be that bad.”

**_You once said you wanted me._ **

“Let’s judge that later.”

**_So here I am._ **

“Let’s.”

**_That’s all._ **

Q’s breath is shaky and his hands are trembling. He turns to look at Tanner, who is about about to say something. The Quartermaster shakes his head and walks towards his subordinate’s desk. “Charles, you’re in charge.” The man looks up at him and nods, puzzled. With no further explanation, Q leaves Q Branch, closely followed by the Chief of Staff. Once outside, the young man rests his back against the wall and rests both palms against it to prevent him from falling on the ground. Tanner stops in front of him. The older man runs his fingers through his hair.

“How…?” he asks.

Q's eyes are glassy. “I… don’t know.”

A minute or two, or twenty perhaps, pass. Q can’t register time anymore. The only thing he knows is that _that_ man on the screen should not be there. And that this is only the prelude of a storm. Tanner speaks again.

“This missing part of her report is going to cost our heads. We need something else. How could you not…?”

 _… not see it_ , Q thinks. This is not only disastrous as a personal level for Q, but also for what he represents in the institution. Sloppy work. Unless... “A fake identity,” Q answers, nervously tapping his foot on the floor.

Tanner folds his arms upon his chest and looks at both ends of the corridor. The future of Tanner, Q and many others depends on the secrecy of this conversation. “Then I’m going to move everyone on this.”

 “No.” The Quartermaster gazes at Tanner, his face wrought with defiance, but then he relaxed into resignation. “All right. All _right!_ But _I'll_ do it. On my own, okay? Nobody has to know about this.”

“But M…”

“Not even him.” Q’s voice is determined.

“This is serious. You can’t hide something like this, especially from him.”

“I’ll get the background information and we’ll decide later.” Desperation lines Q's face. “Please.”

Tanner considers this for a moment and rubs his forehead. They stare at each other in silence, until Tanner eventually concedes. “Do it. But I want a report immediately afterwards.”

“Thank you.”

Slowly, Q leaves the wall and makes his way to his ‘official’ office, which he rarely uses and locks the door behind him. He rests his weight against the door panel and removes his glasses to rub his eyes. He can feel his blood rushing under in his fingertips, pressed against his eyelids.

_You can do this._

Q goes to his desk and opens the laptop. He logs in with an unofficial account and connects to the IRC channel he generally uses to talk with his friends. The list is full of strangers at this hour. The regulars will surely show up in an hour or so but he might find someone who can aid him with this. There is always a good number of other hackers and bored people online ready to jump into the challenging ground. Ego boosting, basically. Just to prove how far they can go accessing information other people would never suspect that exists. Among the names, he recognizes a familiar one. But instead of private messaging her, he sends a message to the open chatroom.

_Q: Anyone seen Mourou?_

And the negative answers go one after another. Until the one he recognized answers.

_Mushishi: heeeeyyy_   
_Mushishi: i saw him @ [admin-MB]_   
_Mushishi: lemme see_   
_Mushishi: brb_

Q taps his foot, impatient. If anyone can help him it is Mourou, a veteran hacker Q never met in real life but has a fairly good relationship with. As far as he knows, he did some pretty nasty shit with the CIA a couple of years ago but he’s always kept himself clean of tracing. He’s never asked him anything before, because you just don’t bother a net legend just for the fuck of it. A minute later, his initial contact answers.

_Mushishi: yeah he’s there_   
_Q: Thanks._   
_Mushishi: np_

Q enters the channel with a cloak and messages him. It takes some minutes until he gets a reply.

_Q: Hey._   
_Mourou: sup_   
_Q: I need a favor._   
_Mourou; shoot_   
_Q: I need a bg check on someone. Ruth Mardling. CEO of Martin Young, the fashion house._   
_Q: Anything you can find from her._   
_Mourou: hmmm_   
_Mourou: gimme sth 2 work with_   
_Q: I’m sending you what I have._   
_Mourou: k_

The Quartermaster uploads the file on a file storage server online and passes him the link. After some minutes, he receives an answer.

_Mourou: what r u lookin for_   
_Q: Anything concerning her activities 10 years ago._   
_Q: Especially stuff related with the law._   
_Mourou: not my area_   
_Mourou: i can find som1 who knows though_   
_Mourou: gimme an hour_   
_Mourou: max_   
_Q: Ok. I’ll be on._   
_Mourou: k_

Q covers his eyes with his palms. He has an hour ahead to torture himself with uncertainty. The anxiety is killing him. In his mind he pictures the man’s face and Mardling kissing him, holding him, or even worse, in bed with him. Q thinks about his loved ones, those whose lives will be crushed if this is as bad as it seems to be and comes out to light. He can’t start imagining the consequences of learning about something that will change his perception of this man forever. Of his feelings about him.

That man is _Joseph Ainsworth Turner._

His father.

...

_Mourou: got sth_

An hour and half later, the private chat window blinks and Q hurriedly clicks on it.

_Q: Great. Send it._   
_Mourou: got this from a friend_   
_Mourou: Magik_   
_Mourou: he says u owe him coz it was hard 2 get_   
_Mourou: he wants 2 meet u_   
_Q: Sure._   
_Q: Thanks._

As soon as he has the file, Q reads through the fifty five pages of information, some of which he already had in the file he sent to Mourou. He skips the first part and searches for his father’s name and discovers he’s mentioned several times in the results.

Her birth name was Marian Knight, born in Kensington, divorced parents, one older sister. Q skips several pages until he finds Joseph’s name and starts reading from that point, his hands uncontrollably shaking. There’s a rough basic paragraph about her relationship with Q’s father, when she was 20 and according to Q’s calculation, the Quartermaster was 14 at that time. Surprisingly so, the file contains a large amount of information regarding his father, giving the young man the sensation that her relationship with him was quite serious. It’s labeled as ‘Legal Issues’ and the indictment reads _“Fraud and extortion,”_ describing the judicial case with plenty of detail. There’s the name of the barrister of the defendant’s party and it’s no surprise when he finds his father’s name. He begins to read.

At the time of the event, she was studying art and she had a boyfriend, Cedric Kerr, who studied journalism. She went to high society parties and VIP events to meet powerful men and bed them. There’s a list of names and their professions. Politicians, judges, business men and the list goes on. Everything regarding the circumstances of each is described under the names of every man involved. He skips some pages and finds Joseph’s name. According to the investigation, she met him at an art show party he attended with a colleague and started an affair with him. After a night together, she proceeded just like she did with her previous victims and she gave her boyfriend the video she secretly recorded of the encounter. He used it to blackmail Joseph, coercing him into paying to keep Marian and her boyfriend’s mouth shut. Joseph didn’t show any resistance because, according to his declaration, he put his children above everything and even if he wasn’t a very important public figure, he didn’t want them to suffer the consequences. Something interesting here, is that this initial declaration was later taken off before the trial begun.

Q stops at this point and closes his eyes for a moment. He takes a deep intake of breath and continues.

The section ends there and then it goes into detail about how Knight and Kerr’s modus operandi was working fine until she fell into a trap set up by one of the men she was blackmailing. Both she and her boyfriend were sent to court. The Quartermaster shakes his head as he reads that Joseph offered himself to defend her case. Joseph won, arguing that she was working under the influence of her abusive boyfriend and he set her free. After the inform, there are side notes giving information about how the case attracted the media because of the scandal that involved many men related to powerful positions and then it states that Ainsworth Turner provided her with a new identity to begin anew, thus Ruth Mardling was born, leaving her past behind.

The Quartermaster stops reading and considers this. According to the date, a month later his father died of a heart attack.

He closes the lid of the laptop and blankly stares at its black cover.

The first that comes to his mind is disillusionment. The relationship he had with his father could be considered quite distant and cold. But still, he’s Q’s father. And that puts this revelation on a whole different level. His first memory of him was that time when he was a toddler and decided to play with his father’s papers, doodling on them. Joseph got so angry that Q never attempted to get close to his office ever again. Joseph was so immersed in his work that he rarely paid attention to his kids’ most significant moments in life, such as their first day at school, achievements in any type of tournament, family meetings or birthdays. He was always busy and Q’s mother would mask his father’s lack of interest with work and responsibilities, something Q and Sarah grew up accepting as his normal behavior.

Q opens his laptop and reads his father’s story again.

_He put his children above everything._

It's hard to believe Joseph did this when all Q could remember was how nonexistent his father was. Perhaps it was Joseph’s way to love them, because that’d be the only reasonable way to approach this sudden ‘interest’ for his family. If Joseph was a mystery for Q before, now his father’s picture is covered by a thick, dense fog. Which he’s not truly interested in clearing, in all honesty. His perception of the man who seemed very strict and faithful with his marriage was just a lie. The scattered decent memories of his father are nothing but a product of fiction.

Q thinks about his mother. And Sarah. Revealing a truth like this to his mother and sister will accomplish nothing except hurting them. So he’ll keep it silent for now. It will be a lie within another lie. If he speaks, the truth will destroy Sarah's perception of their father. She wasn’t ‘daddy’s favorite’ truly, but she’d be the one playing devil’s advocate every time their father did something that would make Q upset. Just enough for the young boy to let out a sarcastic comment about it at the dinner table. So, bringing up his father’s infidelity, would that be necessary? What good will it do? And his mother! Katherine might brush it off on the outside but Q knows she'd berate herself over it; possibly blaming herself and thinking of herself as a failure as a wife. Q can’t remain in the same room with his mother for more than thirty minutes but if she was here right now, sitting in front of Q at his desk, the Quartermaster isn’t sure he’d gaze at her through the same eyes. He can’t stand her, but she was the one  who raised him, after all. She was the one who endured many sleepless nights by his side when he was sick and coughing so badly that he couldn’t breathe. The one who loved to ridicule him calling him ‘baby’ in front of his school friends. The one who sat proudly in the first row at his graduation ceremony and clapped like a maniac when Q received his Master of Systems Engineering Management title. The same woman who held teenaged Eli close, fighting back her own tears at Joseph’s funeral. No. Now is not the time to think about this; it's too early to decide so hastily. Time will tell.

_This woman._

Mardling wrecked the solid structure of his family. And she has the nerve to keep a photograph of his father on top of her desk, like a fucking trophy. If her past is as muddy as it is, there’s little to no doubt that she’s in deep shit on the Discs’ case and that her involvement is more serious than they’ve imagined.

_And Bond…_

He went on about secrets and honesty with her. Bond’s definitely serious about her or else he wouldn’t mention something like that. It’s not part of the acting because it’s irrelevant to the mission. Bond spoke a truth, even if it wasn't the entire truth. If Bond gets involved deeper with her, double oh seven will probably fall into another black hole. Mardling could be another one of those supposedly ‘worth-risking-everything’ people that bring nothing but deception and lies. They enter your life, weave a rope around your neck, and when they leave, they tighten the noose on the way out. The idea of seeing Bond fall into her trap will torment him unless he warns him about her true nature. She’s a snake, undoubtedly yes. Still, she’s the snake Bond has feelings for. In her file there’s nothing else after she took her new identity, nothing to prove that she went back to her extortive activities.

Perhaps she has changed. Maybe she realized that back then she was only a kid thinking she could make herself a path into the world with her boyfriend screwing with other people’s lives. And after the trial, she took seriously the new chance Q’s father has offered her to start a new life. Or maybe the Quartermaster is just _so hurt_ that he’s minimizing his own pain in order to give preference to Bond’s well being. He can’t talk to him about Mardling without getting into the shameful details of his father’s involvement. Which is hardly significant for the mission so far. And if Q opens his mouth, he’ll look like a jealous girlfriend trying to snatch his man from the claws of his lover. He won’t fall for t hat. Q’s dignity comes first. Always.

_And yet…_

The young man abruptly leaves his office and heads to the bathroom. He’s alone. Staring at the floor, he paces for a while before halting in front of the far wall. Q closes his eyes. Little by little, his breathing increases and the primal instinct of anger begins to warm his body. Evolving from the flickering flame of a candle to the intensity of a pyre.

_Regret._

That filthy word should be erased from every written or spoken language in the world. Flashes of what happened between him and Bond over the last month come and go in his mind. In between each scene, he pictures himself pointing out all the mistakes he committed from beginning to end. How he put too much weight on starting a relationship with this man when he wasn’t ready for one to begin with. How he held himself stupidly against Bond’s clear intentions of keeping this only on a sexual level, free of attachments and compromise. Something that unquestionably defined Bond from being ‘just a man’ (which should have been the sanest way to treat him from the very beginning) to being ‘the man he loves.’ Gross, terrible mistake. If he had played along, and Bond had continued being just a shag he’d be working normally right now, analyzing the facts about Mardling for this mission with a cool head and not like this, confused and angry and weak because he’s terribly attached to the idea that seeing Bond with someone else is painful.

The Quartermaster slams his fist into the wall.

It came out of nowhere, but it doesn’t feel so bad. Doesn’t feel good either. So he goes for it again. Once. Twice. Over and over again until his fist reddens and his skin splits. And then there’s red, tainting the tiles in front of him. His blood. But it doesn’t feel like any other physical pain he’s experienced before. He’s using strength he never thought he had rising up from within him. And he doesn’t stop. Perhaps this useless feeling will vanish. Perhaps the wall will give him the answers he seeks. Perhaps if he keeps crashing his fist against the bloody tiles, Ruth Mardling will disappear. Her and his father, too.

Panting, Q stops. He rests his forehead against the wall and closes his eyes. 

Perhaps this is all you need from time to time. Reset yourself and start anew.

…

“M has to know,” Tanner says looking at the bandage on Q’s right hand. The Quartermaster went to medical and when the nurse asked what happened, he answered with evasive replies. He got hurt. That’s all the explanation she needed. He needs that hand to function and work. End of story.

“No. This is irrelevant to the mission.” Q looks out a window and across the Thames.

Tanner stands by his side, facing the river as well. He's silent for a moment. “Or not.”

“As of now it isn’t, but it could be in the future. I… need to keep this secret.” The Quartermaster frowns. His eyes are reddish. But he won’t cry.

Tanner considers this. “Only because it directly involves the privacy of a member of personnel. But as soon as something connects her with the mission, M will know immediately.”

There are excerpts in the Secret Service Employees contracts that can be subjected to individual interpretation. One of them mentions the privacy rights an employee possesses in disclosing information should the other party have a family connection with the aforementioned employee. If this happens and the information is valuable to the mission, the employee must report what he knows to his immediate superior. For this special section, to put it in very simple words, the SIS defines “value” as ‘any piece of information in any circumstance past or present that defines the subject in question and his/her intentions regarding the mission.’ So you can play there with different shades of gray that go from ‘this person and I used to go fishing at my uncle’s lake’ to ‘this person and I killed twenty bodies and dropped them at my uncle’s lake.’ So if your information goes about fishing and not killing, you can keep it to yourself and your name remains clean from any suspicion. If not, well, that’s pretty obvious.

In Q’s position, his superior can postpone the revelation of this information to his own superior in turn, for twenty-four hours after he’s acknowledged it. This gap of time is used to prevent jumping to hasty conclusions with information that might not be useful at all and may taint the records of high ranked officers of the institution. But the interesting part here is that Mardling is not a relative, but someone related to an employee’s relative, and that legally works for Q right now.

“Of course.”

“Until then…” Tanner pauses watching the Quartermaster with an apprehensive look. “Take the rest of the day.”

“Impossible. Especially if we have new information. And if her identity comes out to light, I want to be present. As you’ve put it before, it directly involves an employee of the institution.” Q faces Tanner for the first time since they started this conversation.

Tanner nods. “As you wish.”

…

Q spends the rest of the morning focusing on work and preventing his head from going to hazardous zones like, for example, personal matters. He’s at work and he’ll have to endure, and everything that doesn’t fit work right now will come later, way beyond MI6’s main entrance. He’s been investigating the cases involved in Mardling’s file to find a connection to the Discs’ mission without positive results. He logs into the woman’s laptop, masks his intrusion and starts reading the e-mails. The Quartermaster’s lips twitch as he sees Bond’s name as the sender in some of them. He goes through all of them in full detail and finds one with Warren & Co as the sender, the same fake company she exchanged e-mails with when Roger Cowan was killed. The most recent is about the arrangement of a meeting this afternoon at _Albannach_ , a restaurant in Trafalgar Square.

Bond’s waiting in the car opposite said place. There’s no movement until Mardling arrives at the specified hour and a thirty-something year old man sits at her table minutes later.

“Anything on him?” M approaches Q’s desk from behind and peeks at his laptop.

“Searching,” answers the Quartermaster as his fingers fly across the keyboard. He does the basic African Guerrilla search with no results. He tries again crossing data at the GRO and after some minutes, he has a match.

“Nicholas Hawtrey, thirty-five, unemployed, single, no criminal record,” Q answers. He sighs. This apparently is another civilian randomly picked for the task.

As it happened with Cowan, they exchange some words and he hands her a USB flash drive. Minutes later, they part heading in differing directions. Mardling gets in a car that picks her up at the restaurant’s door. Hawtrey gets in his own car, parked not so far away from the Albannach.

“Follow him,” says M.

Bond keeps a safe distance from the man’s red Volkswagen Polo. They drive along the Thames. Surprisingly, Nicholas Hawtrey doesn’t seem to notice Bond following him and doesn't attempt to lose his tail. It’s a long, long trip until they leave the most populated area and reach Thames Barrier Park. Hartrey drives towards the docks, a place packed with intermodal containers. He parks close to the shore and he doesn’t leave the car. Bond parks some meters away, hiding behind a red _Hamburg Süd_ container.

“Can you see any movement?” asks Tanner.

"Negative," answers Bond. And it seems like the events are going to take the slow course, which will probably take hours of surveillance and -

_BOOM!_

Bond's grip on the wheel tightens at the sudden explosion. The alarms on the cars and buildings nearby go crazy altogether. The shouting and crying of children and women at the dock are added to the loud symphony of mass hysteria.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Bond narrows his eyes and instinctively starts scanning the area for the source. There's a ball of fire rising from Hawtrey's car and some pieces of the Polo are now floating into the brown waters of the Thames. Some people run away, others dash towards the center of the disaster, many take photos or film the incident with their cellphones.

Tanner’s eyes go wide. “What the…”

Bond immediately gets out of the car and it doesn’t take to be a genius to imagine how enraged he is with the developments. A dead witness is no witness at all.

“Bond, can you see any shooter, something?” asks M, leaning closer to the gray communicator.

“None so far.” The CCTV lenses move around in every possible angle under Q’s command and one of them shows Bond walking around the dock, registering the whereabouts with a clinical eye.

Q types frantically, commanding the cameras to scan the area quickly. He types in an algorithm that will peruse for radio waves in an attempt to detect a mobile signal that could be responsible for activating the bomb. But it's impossible; there's too much activity in the area. The number of phones around the area is infinite considering how crazy people have gone texting, calling 999, receiving incoming calls. Q sighs in frustration.

“Forensics will be there in ten minutes.” Tanner checks his watch and adds, “Make it twenty. We’re in rush hour.”

“I’ll look around.” Bond abandons his post and scours his environment, looking for places a sniper could hide. As for places where someone could activate a bomb... that could be anywhere. Someone could have reached into their pockets and pressed a button.

Orders for forensics are sent and Q stares blankly at his keyboard before looking at M. “Same MO as last time.”

“Only that this time there was no sloppy work,” the Head of SIS answers, slightly raising his eyebrows.

“They could be using civilians to clean their tracks,” suggests Tanner.

“Most likely.” Mallory rests a hand on Q’s shoulder. “Get in touch with double oh four in Japan. Find out if there’s any correlation to the events in London.”

“Yes, sir.”

Q gestures to Charles and the man dials double oh four’s number. The Quartermaster runs a hand over his belly, feeling his stomach protest with hunger. Today’s been a really busy day and he couldn’t get a single minute to waste in trivialities like eating. Or resting. Or taking a moment for himself.

After his communication with the agent in Narashino, Q decides to follow Tanner’s advice and heads back home. The Quartermaster’s body trembles with anxiety. He sips on his water bottle in pajamas and stares out at the window to distract himself. He downloads twenty movies out of impulse which he’ll probably even watch. He washes his face three times and then logs into a chatroom to speak with this Magik, who seems like quite an interesting character. He ends up cutting the conversation short because he needs to vent and things had been getting a bit personal. His senses jump in alertness when he hears the handle of the door rattle. It's John and Q gets up to hurriedly greet him.

“Hey, beautiful.” Ballard hangs his coat on the perch on the wall and greets his lover with a smile.

Q remains quiet for a second and John watches him with a confused look, until the Quartermaster jumps on him like a tiger, grabs his face and his lips clash against the surgeon’s mouth. It took him too fucking much to get back home. Q’s hands work fast on the buttons of John’s shirt and one by one they go with a _pop pop pop_ sound until his patience runs thin and he literally rips the rest of the buttons exposes the man’s broad chest.

“Fuck me,” orders Q through gritted teeth.

Despite being taken by surprise, Ballard doesn’t waste a second and walks Q to the bedroom, trying his best to not topple the tall lamp on the way as he fights to take the Quartermaster’s shirt off. Q battles with John’s annoying belt and finally unzips his trousers, attempting to push the remaining clothes out of the way. Their movements become less coordinated as they approach the bedroom and, in a mess of fingers, mouths and grunting, they fall unceremoniously on the bed. Q bites down hard on Ballard’s shoulder and as the man hovers above him Q’s hand reach up to scratch the Ballard’s back, leaving marks like red rivers on the Serengeti plains. John’s hands find their way lower to tear down Q’s underwear with urgency before Q rolls over forcefully and pushes John onto his back, adrenaline surging through his veins. The warm body next to him sends shivers of excitement through him, taking control of his inhibitions. He wants this. He _needs_ this and he's damn sure he'll get it. Ballard gazes at Q seriously and digs his fingers into the young man's hips with such strength that the marks will likely linger until the following morning. Q straddles him and grinds against him, rubbing their erections together, bending forward and panting against John’s lips. Ballard takes Q’s glasses off and puts them on the nightstand.

The Quartermaster spits on his hand and reaches back to stretch himself for the intrusion. John blinks a couple of times and frowns. “What…”

“Shut up,” Q hisses as his fingers work painfully inside him, the saliva his only lubricant. This won’t work in a million years; he should know by now that playing risky is not his area. _Well, shit._ He reaches out for the nightstand, knocking the Dalek-shaped alarm clock to the floor in the process, along with his glasses and wristwatch. His blood is boiling with anger and desperation. The lubricant, where is the dammed thing?

“Wait… what is… fuck…” John groans, letting a hand travel up Q's chest. He closes his eyes.

“Shut. Up,” the Quartermaster commands hoarsely. Q can’t understand the force that’s driving him to demand angry sex, but there’s a portion in his brain right now that’s asking for roughness and has no time for pretty words or gentle touches, nor for rationalization. There’s a need to be possessed and to possess as well. He will get himself fucked, but if the other man’s not willing to take control, Q will. The Quartermaster even dares to play with fire: no condom or other precautions. Fuck it all.

John’s finally inside him and Q doesn’t even take a second to bury the man’s shaft within himself, feeling his inner muscles stretchting painfully from the forced entry. He bends forward and clasps his hands on John’s shoulders, his eyes never meeting those of his lover. This is just a mechanical act with another body, an assisted masturbatory session. He keeps his look focused on the wall in front of him. He starts moving.

Ballard moans below, and it’s fine if the man is getting off from this, but that’s not the point. Even as Q starts a steady pace and a thin sweat covers his brow, there’s not much difference from other times. In an egotistical rampage, Q starts moving harder against the other man’s hardness, searching for something to slap himself in a sensorial way. Something to take him out of the numb state he’s been living in since the discovery of Mardling’s past.

But fucking John’s dick is doing nothing but wasting his time. After speeding up to get his partner come, the Quartermaster uses some forceful strokes and reaches his climax practically on his own before he collapses on the bed, tired but not sated. He can hear John panting by his side, his broad chest heaving up and down, a strong arm curling around Q’s waist. The young man stares out at the window, lying on his belly.

He thinks of Bond in his bed, but his vision is interrupted by the presence of Mardling in Q’s place. He pictures the look on the agent’s face, how he moved around her this morning, the way he looked at her, spoke, kissed. All those things Q’s sure would not have happened if he was, indeed, in Mardling’s place, because he can’t see Bond openly dating a gay man like that. Which sends Q back to square one: a fuck buddy. It’d have been fine. More than fine. But now it’s too late for anything. It’s too late for Q to restructure his heart too. But the Quartermaster knows he has to stop with this obsession of thinking about someone as unattainable as James Bond, a man who probably doesn’t even give a royal fuck about him right now.

It’s amazing how things took an unexpected turn for the worse when his hopes were so high. He almost felt like floating at Q Branch this morning. Powerful, whole, decided.

In love.

John moves besides him. He rolls and presses Q’s back against his chest, spooning against the Quartermaster’s lithe body. It doesn’t add anything of significance to Q’s state, but at least there’s a warm body curled around him, shielding him from the reality that he is, indeed, very lonely.

And if there’s wetness on Q’s pillow, the product of silent tears, he couldn’t care less.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some references about real scenarios/institutions/etc:
> 
> * "Magik" is a fictional character from [aleksandr_starshow's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aleksandr_starshow/pseuds/aleksandr_starshow) work [Asaṃkhyeya](http://archiveofourown.org/works/644992/chapters/1171393). Magik is a hacker and one of Q's closest friends. And a bit more, too. Being such an interesting character as he is, I wanted to include him in this story, in a AU from Aleks' story.


End file.
